


Occupational Hazard

by ravenclaw_scar



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Civil War (Marvel), Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt Scott Lang, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Scott Needs A Hug, Sokovia Accords, The Raft Prison (Marvel), eventually, ross is a dick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-25 16:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 57,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14981261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenclaw_scar/pseuds/ravenclaw_scar
Summary: Scott Lang excels at getting himself into trouble. After the fight at the airport, Ant-Man's avenging debut, he finds himself locked away under the sea on the Raft, facing far darker threats from the desperate and bitter Ross.Meanwhile, Tony Stark goes rogue and reunites with Steve Rogers. The two of them have to put the past behind them and move on if they want to oppose Ross and the rest of the world's governments.But will they already be too late?





	1. Imprisoned

A plane wing had crashed between him and the sight of Scott collapsed on the ground, the exertion of towering above the rest of them taking its toll on him as he returned to his normal size. Clint had barely registered the streaking trail of smoke, off in the distance, plummeting towards the earth, standing out harshly against the perfectly blue sky, when his own feet sent him clambering over the broken wing.

Scott’s eyes were closing reluctantly when Clint arrived at his side, a copious glance in either direction reassuring the archer that the battle was done, both sides losing and winning, but feeling the effects of the former far more. He directed his attention to the still figure on the concrete, shaking Scott’s shoulder, gently at first and then more insistently.

“Come on buddy,” he coaxed impatiently as the Ant-Man’s eyelids flickered with consciousness. Clint swung his head to either side once more, rocking on his ankles restlessly as he sighed in frustration. Despite what he had warned Cap, that some of them would have to lose for him to win, he wasn’t quite willing to sit down and take imprisonment, or whatever these accords allowed for without a bit of a fight.

Scott groaned in a muted tone, far from the slightly concussed but nevertheless energetic response Clint had hoped for. Scott’s gloved hands reached up gingerly from the tarmac, sending the small grains of concrete embedded in the fabric falling to the ground. They touched the side of his face, massaging his temples as the beginnings of light bruises threatened to form. There was no lopsided smile, no second request for orange slices, just the static crackle in Clint’s earpiece; radio silence.

He’d barely spoken a word, the hyperactive man-child reduced to a sluggishly moving infant, trying his best to pull himself up into a sitting position but stopping to slump with uncomfortable posture halfway there. After remaining still for a while, Clint caught his eye pointedly, saying little over the growing hum of helicopter rotors as Ross arrived to clear up Tony’s mess. Scott’s dilated irises met Clint’s narrowed ones and he shrugged one shoulder in tired apology, the mere motion sending a wince across his face and his head falling back between his knees. Clint reached for his bow, discarded at his side, for a moment and then relented, his fingers creeping back along the concrete and coming to rest in the crook of Scott’s neck in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture.

There was never a second in Clint’s mind when Scott was just some feeble kid who needed his hand holding. The team wasn’t like that. For example, Wanda was barely a teenager in the ageing man’s eyes, but she had power and a hidden strength that secretly terrified him. Not scared of her, more scared for her. Because Wanda could do things she regretted with a few simple gestures and weaving red smoke. Clint at least had to pull the string back, line up the target, slow his breathing. Plenty of time to back out, ample time to reconsider. 

No, Scott was capable. More than, in fact, as he had proved. And reliable too. But first and foremost, he was Clint’s fellow dad on the team; somehow it was those two who had more of a life waiting for them beyond the suits and the weapons than the rest. They laughed, and joked, taking just one endlessly long van journey to feel – right. Scott was a performer, and hey, he was clearly trying to overcompensate for something unnecessarily, but Clint was a receptive audience. And the famously solemn Hawkeye had a sense of humour too, despite what Tony Stark would probably say and had said (in the lab whilst Clint helplessly overheard from the air vents of the old tower).

Above all, Scott wasn’t another one of the masked heroes Clint shared his space with. He had opened the van window on the drive over to gently coax a trapped fly out into the fresh air, he paused one prison story to remark on the particular fluffiness of a dog they’d just passed. He’d apologised before trying to land a punch on anyone on the airstrip. He was human and, above all, he wasn’t a violent man, in fact, he hated the idea of violence for the sake of it. Clint, despite the career choice, was in the habit of agreeing with him, anyhow, and so they just got on. But now Scott was hurt and Clint was the only barrier between him and the grey area of ‘imprisonment’ under the accords.

There was a fight, hypothetically. A desperate, last ditch, throw everything and the kitchen sink sort of attempt to save the two of them. But Scott was struggling to remain upright and somehow, Clint standing over him, protecting him from the soldiers that ran full pelt in their direction as if they were already trying to escape, would only make the assassin more worried about Scott’s condition - feeling like he was shielding a lost cause and scared the other man wouldn’t get up if he looked around.

The approaching soldiers formed a half circle around them, blank faces almost refusing to acknowledge Clint and Scott, the latter’s body slumping against Clint’s in a sure sign of unconsciousness. One stooped quickly to kick Hawkeye’s bow away from him, finger resting testily on the trigger of his gun in warning. Not that it mattered; Clint wasn’t going anywhere, his anxious hands carding through the back of Scott’s hair because if they weren’t doing something, he didn’t trust himself not to jump up and strangle someone. Occupational hazard.

Secretary Ross was strolling towards the kneeling pair with a satisfied smile plastered to his face. His demeanour was completely different to that of a few weeks before; his head sat proudly above broad shoulders, the smugness rolling off of him in waves. Clint threw him a disparaging glance out of the corner of his eye before returning his attention to Scott for it was now clear that no one else was going to.

“Scott? Can you hear me?” 

He kept his tone light and almost whispered, the breath from his mouth displacing Scott’s hair from his shining forehead. Not good, Clint reminded himself, noting the sheen that tinted the bridge of his nose, running across his cheek bones. Scott’s skin was even paler than normal, the unhealthy white juxtaposing with the deep red of his suit.

As Ross approached closer, Scott’s lips parted briefly, allowing a shuddering exhalation to escape him. One eye inched open and met Clint’s almost immediately, sharply focused and clear with panic. His other eye flew open and he pulled his head from Clint’s chest almost sheepishly, but not without that deer in the headlights look on his face that worried the other man.

“Take a breath, Lang,” Clint ordered firmly, watching Scott’s diaphragm rise and fall in stops and starts, “Get your bearings.” He rocked back on his heels and watched Scott glance around, nodding to himself in recognition at the sight of the planes and then glancing up into the sky, wincing as his eyes trailed his imagined descent to the floor.

“Rough landing,” he murmured hoarsely, a half-hearted smile flitting across his face. He seemed to be ignoring the circle of guards that had closed in around them, maybe because the first glance he got of them noticeably accelerated his breathing and sent a nervous tremor through one hand.

“Mr. Barton, Mr. Lang,” Ross greeted with a false lightness in his voice as if they had met up for coffee and a casual conversation, “You appear to have been making a mess.” Clint threw another glare up at the Secretary of State and really started to hate the way the sly man could tower over them. Scott’s head ducked slightly at the sight of the authoritative man, muttering something under his breath that sounded strongly like ‘not again’ in a resigned tone.

“This will not come as any surprise to either of you, but you are now under arrest for direct violation of the Sokovia Accords, both refusing to sign them and for your involvement in this unauthorised confrontation.” Ross stepped forwards further, his sleek, shining black shoes bumping up against Scott’s outstretched legs.

“You have the right to remain silent; in other words, hold your tongue, Barton. We will be escorting you and your friends to a secure prison whilst your sentence is determined. Do not attempt to struggle, place your hands on your heads and stand up.”

Clint warily clasped his hands against his hair, watching Scott out of the corner of his eye as he rose to his feet. Scott closed his eyes for a second, squinting in the bright daylight as he opened them again and attempted to sit up straight, his hands lifting uncomfortably to rest on his head. He pushed himself onto his knees and began to stand, stumbling slightly as he shook the disorientation from his spinning head. Clint’s hands moved automatically from his head to support one elbow as Scott’s legs shook beneath him and he leant into Clint’s grip precariously.

“Hands on your head, Barton!” Ross barked ferociously, the guns of the soldiers lifting mechanically at his raised voice and levelling to aim at Clint’s head.

“He can’t stand,” Clint argued back, ignoring the weapons aimed at him and forcing himself to release the tension from his tightly clenched fist. Ross shrugged dismissively and the soldier stood next to him gestured with the butt of his gun from Clint’s hands to his head.

Scott nodded almost imperceptibly, loosening his elbow from Clint’s hand and raising his own hands to his head. Clint mirrored his actions, weaving his fingers together to keep himself from reaching out again. Ross continued to audibly gloat, a sound that both fugitives faded out of their disquieted minds.

Scott felt himself swaying on the spot, trying to ground himself by looking at Clint through the falling strands of hair that blocked his view. Clint was watching back, his eyes trained steadily at a point just in front of Scott’s head but flickering back and forth continuously. Scott’s vision still contained unshakeable spots at the edges that crept across his eyes every so often before retreating. He had gone big at the lab before, under the supervision of Hank of course, but it had never really got past the experimental phase. He always seemed to end up on the floor, burned out and fatigued as if he had run a marathon. But it was the head pains that got to him, stabbing across his vision in bright flashes and sending his mind spinning. Hank said it was something to do with his brain, and that the resizing process took its toll more on the way up than the way down. That explained the bruising around his temples, Scott supposed, as well as the passing out and dizziness.

It also explained how he ended up falling to his knees halfway through Ross’s victory speech, cutting the arrogant man off with a minute gasp of pain. Clint twitched reflexively but somehow kept his eyes focused unblinkingly on the horizon. His hands shot from his head for a second but remained interlaced, resting back on his head reluctantly as he bit the inside of his mouth.

“We will use force, Mr. Lang,” Ross warned tauntingly, the flash of a smirk indicating that he was enjoying himself far too much. Seeing other people with power beyond their wildest dreams sent some people down a bad path, Clint had realised early into his time with the Avengers, and it never seemed to end positively for either side.

The nearest soldier to Scott toed his hunched form impatiently, reacting to Ross’s instructions and pressing the barrel of the gun into his back. Scott’s muscles seized further, if it were possible, and he seemed to stop breathing. Clint flexed his fingers as they slipped away from each other and, no longer restrained by his own self-control, lunged for the surprised man. He wrestled the gun from his grip easily and angled it straight back at the stunned soldier.

“Stand down, Hawkeye,” Ross ordered calmly, as if someone hadn’t just pulled a gun from the hands of one of his soldiers, “You are not helping your friend.” Scott’s back had relaxed as the gun withdrew and he stared at the concrete blindly, feeling his head blur into turmoil. That was the last time Clint saw him conscious for the entire trip.

* * *

They were led to the waiting helicopters, Clint walking firmly on the tarmac, his pent up anger escaping through the slapping sound of his shoes on the ground, as Scott was carried unceremoniously between two soldiers, his scratched and dented helmet left discarded next to Clint’s bow. Stretching his hands against the restraints placed around them, Clint stared grimly out of the blacked out windows, seeing very little of the airport on the other side of the helicopter. He was sat opposite Scott, whose head rolled first against the glass and then onto his shoulder. Clint noticed a small patch of dripping blood, crusted with black dust, that he hadn’t seen before, tracing a line from Scott’s forehead to the collar of his suit and glared again at the soldiers who sat between them, wondering if they’d allowed the other man to fall intentionally.

It was quiet for a moment before the sounds of an obstinate struggle rang out across the empty airfield, Sam’s familiar voice protesting loudly over the sounds of soldiers shouting back at him. Clint craned his neck, sighting the man, relieved of his wings, being marched along next to Wanda. Her hands were cuffed behind her back but still free to toy with the ethereal strands of energy that weaved between her fingers. However, she made no move to overpower the two guards who stood on either side of her.

As Sam was led over to Clint’s helicopter, Wanda was taken in the opposite direction, the two no longer complaining. Sam’s head was bowed and his mannerisms subdued; he bent his head to duck into the helicopter and was sat diagonally from Clint, immediately looking up from the floor and sighing in what seemed like relief. Clint suddenly recalled the streak of smoke plummeting through the sky and looked at him questioningly.

“Rhodes was shot out of the air. Vision was going for my wings but I dodged and he knocked him out instead. Tony wasn’t fast enough to reach him; neither was I…” Sam broke off sharply, his eyes wandering to avoid Clint’s and suddenly finding Scott’s slumped head instead.

“Scott?” he mumbled in a far quieter tone, directing his question more at Clint as he realised the other man wasn’t going to answer. Gone was the exaggeration of anger and the facade of adrenaline. What replaced it was a solemn severity, miles away from his usually good natured taunting of Scott’s abilities. There was no Tic-Tac, just an unconscious Scott Lang.

“He went giant,” Clint muttered distantly, biting his lip between sentences, “That spider kid wrapped his legs with webbing and Rhodes collided into his chest. He fell backwards over a plane and the wing broke between us. By the time I got to him he’d come back down to normal size but he was almost unconscious.” Sam seemed to bite back several harsh retorts, quickly realising they weren’t really directed at Clint at all, and nodded in understanding. He continued to check Scott over with his eyes, straining in his seat to see around the soldier between them.

“And did Scott forget to wear his helmet?” Sam continued more dangerously, his eyes following the drying line of red down his cheek. 

“Ross,” Clint replied darkly, spitting the word out like a curse and aiming another scowl between the two soldiers. The man himself appeared at the open door of the helicopter and one of the guards placed a restraining hand on Sam’s arm as he half attempted to push himself from his seat.

“Where’s Wanda going?” Clint demanded as the Secretary observed the three of them with satisfaction.

“You’ll all end up in the same place,” he replied with a sickening smile, “We were just concerned that Miss Maximoff may be tempted to use her enhancements to escape.”

“And now?”

“She will be far less likely to do that if she risks leaving the three of you at the Raft.” Clint searched his memory for the location of the Raft, drawing a blank on both its purpose and where it was situated.

Ross surveyed them one last time, resting on Scott for a moment with an indescribably smug expression before nodding to the pilot and retreating to a safe distance. The doors were shut on the whirring sound of the rotors beginning to spin and the helicopter began to rise, leaving Clint with the sinking feeling he always got when a plane took off, coupled with the pit in his stomach at the thought of what was to come.

* * *

As it turned out, the location of the Raft would remain a mystery. A few miles out, after a couple of hours of journeying, Clint’s eyes were covered with a blindfold without warning. He had been squinting through the blackened windows for some indication of land but only finding the faint pattern of waves in an ocean. In the darkness that followed, Clint wondered if Sam and Scott were blindfolded as well; he had been the first, so he hadn’t had the chance to see any more blindfolds. Sam hadn’t complained, then again he hadn’t said anything for the duration of the trip, alternating between scrutinising Scott’s still form and playing with his hands in the restraints.

The helicopter hovered in the sky, stationary, and then began to descend. The sound of the blades changed and Clint guessed they were inside. Somewhere cavernous, he deduced, as the echoes of the rotors crescendoed. Maybe the sound would wake Scott, he thought.

The blindfold was not removed for the lengthy walk to what Clint presumed would be a cell. He didn’t expect much of a trial, more an indefinite sentence that amounted to rotting away in a small room somewhere for more than a few years. Say goodbye to retired life on the farm, he thought bitterly.

The arms directing Clint pulled away and he was instructed to step forwards and then to stop. His hands were freed and then a door closed behind him. He removed his blindfold and spun on the spot, coming face to face with a familiar man. The soldier smirked easily as he held out his hand through the small opening in the door and took the blindfold back. Then, he walked away, whistling some obnoxious tune with ridiculous cheeriness as Sam repeated the ritual opposite him. Wanda was nowhere to be seen, but Clint had heard one guard tell another that her helicopter would be arriving later than their own. So he wouldn’t worry yet.

The room was small and more of an observation chamber than anything else. The front wall was entirely glass, thick from the look of it and partitioned with white stripes. Clint didn’t like feeling as if he was on show in prison; he would have preferred a basement cell, more like solitary confinement or something.

The arrogant soldier who had stepped away from the door with his blindfold suddenly fit into place in Clint’s memory. He was one of those S.H.I.E.L.D cadets that left the day after ‘Barton’s Induction,’ a once dreaded session with Hawkeye himself. Clint could remember him as well – he’d picked him out as one of the candidates that needed wearing down a little and had rubbed him up the wrong way, marginally. A lot of them ended up in the military, Clint had come to realise over the years. An easier atmosphere; more methodical and robotic, same amount of action. It also lacked the paperwork of a S.H.I.E.L.D job, which had its benefits.

A lot of those that Barton had weeded out of the system early on got the same grudge that Ross clearly harboured himself. A programmed dislike for anyone who called themselves an Avenger; craving the power that a particularly talented individual had. No wonder he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face; failed initiate had become superior prison guard. What a promotion.

Clint was just about finished mentally reprimanding the familiar man when he returned with another soldier, both of them holding Scott between them. He wasn’t quite conscious, his feet looking for purchase on the tiles as they pulled him along but scuffling in small, insignificant motions. Clint shook his head at the sight of Scott’s face beneath his blindfold, sure the small drip of blood had grown yet also certain that it should have clotted early on into their journey to the Raft.

There was no procedure with Scott. They manoeuvred him to the cell around from Clint’s, leaving him with an unsatisfactory view of his biggest cause for concern, and removed Scott’s handcuffs and blindfold. His eyes were still closed but now scrunched tightly in a way that could only have been a conscious action. He was pushed the few metres into the centre of his cell and the door sealed shut.

Sam was on his feet from the narrow bed in the corner of his room in seconds. He had a direct view of Scott’s cell from his own, as well as Clint’s and met the eyes of the latter for a moment. His hands rested on the cool glass of the front wall, palms splayed as if he was trying to get a little closer, close the distance that the circular room put between them.

“Tic-Tac,” he called carefully across the room, glad to find that his voice was not closed in by the thick glass. He glanced up at one of the cameras briefly, wondering if the guards would let them communicate for long. “Hey, Scott?”

Scott was out of sight of Clint, having crawled to the far wall of the small room and rested his back against it. Clint stood in the far corner of his own cell and strained to see around the corner at an impossible angle.

“Scott?” he asked, equally as warily. Finally a murmur of response escaped the other man, only carrying across the large room faintly but sending Sam’s shoulders into a relieved slump.

“What – Wh-where-” Scott’s fragmented questions escaped in bursts as he controlled his wavering breaths. Disoriented still, Clint diagnosed to himself, and definitely confused.

“We’re in a high security prison,” he explained shortly, realising that this was not a comforting statement, “You took a hit in the fight at the airport and got knocked out. Ross took us three, and Wanda, but Steve escaped with Bucky. Remember?” Scott hummed in agreement although judging from Sam’s continued concern he still clasped his head in his hands and barely moved except for the shudder in his shoulders.

A silence grew between the cells as Clint debated their options carefully. It was broken by the hydraulic hiss of the main door opening, revealing a relatively healthy looking Wanda, escorted by two guards to her own cell.

“I’m fine,” she promised as soon as the guards left them again. Her hands were left clasped behind her back and she had been dressed in black gloves that seemed to limit her powers. She smiled tentatively across at Clint who still regarded her with concern, trying to shake the opinion that she as just a teenager. Wanda could look after herself now.

“Hey, Scott?” Clint asked again after a couple of minutes, only continuing when he heard the same hummed response, “Could you move where I could see you? Just for a minute?” Clint cursed his ‘worried old man’ routine that he’d seemed to develop as more and more people joined the team but secretly took pride in the responsibility placed on his shoulders. After all, without Cap, he was by far the most qualified leader amongst them and, without his newfound dedication to his family that retirement had brought, he needed a new set of people to worry over.

Scott took his time but stood up against the bed, listening numbly to Sam’s cautious encouragement. Clint took note of his progress from the other man’s reassurances. Scott reached the end of the bed, a few small steps by himself, then another wall to rest against. Finally he appeared in the small square Clint could see from his cell.

Still dressed in war-torn uniform, Scott wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of the old films Steve sometimes watched to remember the war by. Clint didn’t like those movies, finding the body count too high (yes, even for an assassin) and the glassy stares of bloodied faces disconcerting. Blood stained Scott’s right cheek and ear, crusted between the hairs that stuck to his forehead. His eyes continued to slip closed of their own volition, blinking open rapidly as he concentrated on standing still. Clint wondered, not for the first time, why anyone had thought it was a good idea to test experimental suit adaptions in a battle that actually counted although he quickly drew a conclusion. Scott had told Steve he had a potential distraction, only resorting to his new tech when the situation went south. And Cap didn’t have much of a choice; his teammates were laying down their normal lives for him, he couldn’t let himself get caught. He couldn’t let Bucky return to that. 

“When did the bleeding start up again?”

“Fell,” Scott replied simply, his scrunched up eyes suggesting he wasn’t up for intellectual conversation, “Getting out of the helicopter, I think. Pushed me – against the wall-”

Wanda hid a gasp under her breath and Sam didn’t quite hide a darkly muttered curse under his breath. 

“Alright,” Clint conceded softly, “The bleeding’s drying up pretty quickly and then there’s just those bruises on the side of your head.” He finished, letting Scott return to his preferred wall in peace but glad to see him slide down the wall that was in sight, crossing his legs and looking around the central room uneasily. Clint agreed wordlessly; a circle gave too many angles and too many opportunities to be taken advantage of. Even he didn’t have 360 degree vision.


	2. Information

And just like that, an hour passed and Clint spent it swearing continually under his breath. Nothing seemed to happen for a while, until the soldiers came in with typical prison uniforms, taking away their worn, ragged clothes. 

Clint played with the harsh plastic of the blue shirt he’d been given. It felt like the sort of thing surgeons wear in operating theatres, leaving the room to settle precariously in a cold, uncomfortable atmosphere. One soldier entered Scott’s cell after bringing the uniforms, swabbing the blood away from his face briefly, leaving the skin red where she had rubbed too harshly. And Clint started to get the lay of the land; it was high security in the sense that everything was off limits, including harmless pieces of wet cotton wool.

He also came to the quick conclusion that if he didn’t break the four of them out in a plan that involved taking out a couple of the guards or else if Nat and Steve beat him to it, he would go on one of those ‘personal missions’ after they got home. The people he had worked with in S.H.I.E.L.D used to call them excursions, discussing them like they were holidays, rather than a silent assassination attempt on someone who had wronged them once. And Clint realised early on in his plan that it seemed counterintuitive to resort to murder when imparting some sort of revenge on behalf of Scott, the anti-killing guy, but he was tired and frustrated and so far beyond giving a shit about pacifism, that the motivation seemed to stick. So that’s the thread Clint hung on to, the promise of revenge.

Sam walked the length of his cell a hundred times in the first half hour, eventually stopping against the front wall and sliding down it defeatedly. It’s surprising how little it took to reduce the group to such pessimism, but by Ross’s second visit to tell them how rubbish their lives would be from then on, Clint was sure that everyone was beginning to believe it.

A few hours in, the lights switched off and the four allowed themselves to hope for a minute. Sam lifted his head, as did Scott, and Wanda stood up from her bed and waited at the door curiously. But then Clint did the maths in his head and realised it would be approaching nighttime. He was reluctant to tell them, perfectly predicting the way Wanda returned to her bed as if she’d never been interested anyway and how Scott and Sam rested their heads on their arms in sync.

The night passed silently, leaving Clint to think in the stifling static. He mostly worried, if only to keep his thoughts away from home and the kids. The mind of an assassin is surprisingly loud, far from the cool demeanour every other one he’d ever met displayed. No, he’d worry about anything if he could; the cost of petrol going up, what to cook for dinner three weeks next Tuesday, the source of those sounds you hear in the night.

The artificial sun of the fluorescent tube lighting alerted the inmates to the arrival of the next morning. Sam rose first, nodding across the room to Clint who nodded back and started a short circuit of exercises to take his mind off the lack of food. Wanda followed soon after, murmuring a slightly sarcastic good morning through the door of her cell and walking small circles between her bed and the wall to stretch her legs.

Sam gave up on the distraction of one handed push ups quickly, taking up a silent vigil of Scott’s cell. Clint glanced up from his position lying flat on the bed on his stomach.

“Is he awake?”

“Not yet,” Sam replied slowly, his eyebrows knitting into a frown, “Trust Scott to hurt himself on the one mission that ends with us in prison.” That was the bitterness Clint had been waiting for, the irrational but uncontrollable surge of anger that was bound to break the dams of Sam’s concern. And of course, the concern was still there, running deeply through every harsh comment, but it was laced with anger that would only get bottled up in the small room.

“We all knew what we were signing up for,” Clint reminded him, a little sharply, “Scott provided the distraction Steve needed to get Bucky out of there. Getting arrested was almost inevitable after that.”

“Indeed, Barton,” Ross stepped through the door with another one of his unsuppressed smirks, “The four of you should know exactly what you have done: assisting a known criminal, breaking the accords, millions of dollars worth of damages. And you have information _I_ would very much like to possess.” Clint raised an eyebrow slightly; Ross had only ever struck him as one of the government’s robots, he hadn’t been expecting the information card to be played.

“What sort of information?”

“The intended whereabouts of Steve Rogers,” Ross shared as an example, “That would be a good start. And then, who knows? Each of you has secrets the government would value.” He walked across to Clint’s cell from the centre of the room.

“The prolonged effects of Loki’s sceptre,” he began icily. Clint felt a shiver run up his spine at the memory of the frozen blue eyes and the mind numbing blankness that followed.

“HYDRA’s enhanced research programme,” he continued, pausing at Wanda’s cell with a pointed glance at her hands, before moving to stand in front of an agitated Sam.

“Intelligence on Captain America from a close associate.” Sam turned away from the glass in disgust.

“But what I’m interested in to start with, is Ant-Man here. I’d love to hear about the latest Pym technology breakthroughs. Old Hank clearly hasn’t got the hang of going the other way yet,” Ross finished with a pointed glance at the still blossoming bruises down the side of Scott’s face, causing the man to lift his head warily, now wide awake. The Secretary of State stood a moment longer at Scott’s door before nodding to himself and gesturing to the two soldiers at the main entrance.

“We will begin with Mr. Lang, and see if we can get what we need from him.” Not liking the tone, Clint stood against the door and watched closely as the cell next to him was unlocked.

Scott stood up on slightly steadier feet and offered his hands with barely a tremble running though them. Clint had to remind himself that Scott had been in prison before, that he could have fallen from fifty feet the day before and still maintain his composure. But he shouldn’t have to, his brain argued back angrily, that was the trained spy’s job, avoiding questions, dodging torture, or whatever else they had planned because surely, Clint liked to lie to himself, the government weren’t going for that kind of style. After all, there were rules to follow.

“No need to look so concerned,” Ross smiled slyly from the door, aiming his comments at Clint and the pacing figure of Sam, “If Mr. Lang tells us what we need to know, the questioning process will be quick and – painless.” He chose the last word delicately, leaving a tense, questioning silence behind him as the door slid shut soundlessly. Sam slammed one fist against the glass and turned his back on the door, his hands pulling slightly at the hair on his head. Clint lay back down on the rumpled covers of his bed; Ross seemed hellbent on breaking every rule in the book.

* * *

Scott followed the guard in front of him dutifully, replacing his feet where the round toed boots had been previously, careful to keep up as the guard behind him pressed the barrel of a gun lightly against his spine. His head felt clearer, still tired but present and awake. 

They stopped at the door to a room that was located down a long, empty corridor. The hallways were lined with pipes as if they were on a boat, making Scott think that the Raft could be an aptly named underwater prison. He would have been slightly excited and intrigued if he weren’t an inmate.

The room was poorly lit in comparison to the bright hallway although Scott could make out a single table and two chairs, one on either side of the desk. He was pushed firmly into one seat and Ross sat on the other, leaning forwards across the table as Scott’s hands were fastened to the back of his chair.

“Shall we begin, Mr. Lang?” His voice was harsh and cold, a bored drawl as if he would rather be anywhere else. Scott nodded in reply and twisted his wrists slightly in the tight restraints to maintain the circulation of blood to his hands.

“Where were you set to visit after the airport, with Steve Rogers?” Ross questioned first. Scott bit the inside of his mouth, thinking for a moment.

“I don’t know,” he replied steadily. Ross smirked and repeated the question equally as calmly.

“I was recruited for that fight,” Scott answered again, “The captain didn’t give me every detail.”

“You know what I think?” Ross asked as if Scott hadn’t spoken, “I think you knew exactly where you were going, because you wouldn’t have left your daughter to go on a wild goose chase. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Scott tightened his hands into fists at the thought of her. Cassie. Her innocent, all is good with the world smile, her outspokenness even from a young age and her desperation to believe that Scott was undoubtedly one of the good guys.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Lang?”

“I chose to help Steve Rogers because I don’t agree with the accords,” Scott fought to maintain his composure successfully, “I want Cassie to live in a safe, protected world. Apart from that, my daughter didn’t come into it.” Bullshit, of course. Cassie was everywhere, in everything Scott did. His first question before making any decision: does this help Cassie? And if he believed the answer was yes, he wouldn’t hesitate.

“It’s a shame,” Ross’s voice took on a hint of anger, “I thought the events of yesterday would make you a little easier to deal with. It seems that your tongue needs loosening somewhat, Mr. Lang.”

Scott was released from the chair upon his orders and stood up again. At the end of another long corridor was an equally dim room, this one only containing one seat. Scott was positioned in the solitary chair and immediately noticed the difference; restraints were tightened around his wrists and then his legs were fastened securely with similar cuffs at the base of the chair.

“You see, the Raft operates a little out of the way of the American government’s watchful eyes,” Ross explained, “So, we can enter uncharted waters with our techniques, if we need to. I will warn you now, this is your last chance to talk, Lang.”

“I don’t know where Steve Rogers is.”

Ross sighed in mock exasperation although he could barely hide his gleeful anticipation. He gestured to the man who stood patiently at the edge of the room and then pointed to a table that was shrouded mostly in shadows.

“Take your pick,” he instructed the soldier before rolling his sleeves up to the elbows and facing Scott. “Are you familiar with the common torture methods Mr. Lang?” Scott chose to keep his mouth shut, opting to follow the other man’s methodical movements at the table. He returned with a simple wooden bat and planted his feet a shoulder width apart in front of the chair.

The basic blows were easy to block out, reminding Scott of his earlier days in prison when the new guy tended to be on the end of some run of the mill beatings. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. The man in front of him targeted his upper arms and then his shins, landing well aimed, but tolerable hits across his skin. Scott concentrated on keeping his back straight against the chair, ignoring all but the harshest blows over already bruising skin.

“Anything come to mind?” Ross stood to one side, watching with a calculated gaze from the wall and occasionally punctuating a hit with some comment or else a question that would go unanswered. Scott shook his head no and noted the slight disappointment with a small flicker of victory. Ross addressed the other man in the room again. “Try something a little more interesting.”

* * *

Clint really didn’t like the symmetry of the circular room. He knew that sort of thing was a tactic, designed to make people uncomfortable, but he still didn’t like it. And the glass wall at the front of every cell was clearly there to make them feel like lab rats in a cage. He guessed it also let them all see each other break, if that was what was going to happen. In the position of Steve, Clint found himself being incredibly unenvious of the other man’s responsibilities, and the pressures that came with them. He started to attach reasons to the shadows beneath his eyes, to make links between the threats that hung over the team’s heads and the cloud of worry that hung over Steve’s. And then he remembered the tint of doubt in the captain’s eyes as Sam had proposed Scott to him; there was the usual distrust of an outsider but another level beneath that, the ‘he has a kid’ sort of level that always ripped Steve back to the core.

Scott had been gone for a while, if his internalised body clock served him well. And Clint didn’t like that, almost as much as a pent up Sam hated it, the darker skinned man patrolling his cell like a lost sentry with nothing to guard. Wanda had been on high alert all day, her hands rubbing together in the rough fabric of the gloves, eyes fixed on the main door.

When it finally opened, Clint removed his own eyes from their perusal of the completely blank ceiling and he watched the space closely. Scott was marched back through the door sandwiched between guards. He didn’t seem to make much effort to hide a limp although Clint quickly realised that it was probably because he was trying unsuccessfully to limp on both legs. Scott’s blue t-shirt displayed the full extent of bruises across his upper arms, ranging from ugly greens and yellows to harsh browns and blacks. Then, Clint noticed how Sam’s eyes were fixed on Scott’s hair and realised for the first time that it was slightly wet, glistening with water droplets. To confirm his suspicions, Clint glanced across his face carefully, spotting another few pockets of water, dripping to the tip of his nose, clinging to his eyebrows and the creases of concentration across his forehead.

The guards performed the familiar ritual, leading Scott into his cell and removing the cuffs before locking the door behind them. Scott exhaled audibly as the main door shut and, judging from the sounds, sat heavily on the thin mattress of his bed.

Sam had remained statue-like at the glass window, his clouded eyes speaking far louder than any words he could muster. Clint felt similarly, searching for a question, a way of starting a conversation with a man who had been beaten and half-drowned as he refused to betray a man he barely knew.

“I didn’t say anything,” Scott eventually broke the silence, speaking with fragility in a scratched, broken voice. Clint could hear the slight strain and the effort behind the words and he closed his own eyes tightly.

“Of course you didn’t,” he replied confidently to the darkness of his eyelids, “Steve trusts you. That’s why we’re all here. Because Steve trusts us.”

“Not to say anything,” Scott finished wearily, the sound of limbs shifting on a mattress reaching Clint’s ears.

“None of us will,” Wanda echoed comfortingly, although she had clearly picked up on the fatigue behind Scott’s assertion because she watched his cell closely. They fell silent collectively, three of them listening to the slight rattle in the other’s breath, Scott repeating a silent mantra in his head.

“You did good, Tic-Tac,” Sam murmured from across the room. Clint couldn’t see Scott’s face but he imagined a small, if a little tired, smile crossing his face.

* * *

It was still disconcerting the third time the room was cast into darkness, signalling the end of the third day, the combination of silence and blindness setting Clint back on edge. He had never liked sleeping at night on a mission, already distrustful of the quiet and craving an unobtainable feeling of control over the situation. It had been three days of monotony, with the most notable, constant feature being the dull undertones of hunger. They had been given a piece of bread each, at the start of each day, and a glass of water. It was far from nourishing and, Clint noted grimly, hardly enough to keep them functioning for long.

He listened to the soft sounds that still echoed across the room if he strained hard enough; the water running through pipes, or maybe surrounding them (Scott had shared his underwater theory), the sound of the others breathing. 

Scott had been taken away each day since they arrived, more often than not returning with damp hair, his voice leaving him as he hoarsely promised he hadn’t broken, not yet. That afternoon, Scott had spent a good few minutes hacking up half a lung, but it seemed to have cleared his chest of the water that left him wheezing through shallow inhalations.

The combination of sleep deprivation and a lack of food further set Clint’s nerves on edge. He closed his eyes to ward off his stomach’s impatience and slowly drifted off, only just managing to force himself back awake as the main door opened quietly. The hiss was almost lost in the cavernous room, barely standing out over the chorus of breathing or Clint’s restless thoughts.

He shifted onto his side and narrowed his eyes to see through the pitch black darkness in front of him. It wasn’t very successful, because he could barely see his hand resting at the side of his head but he spotted a pinprick of light crossing the window in front of his room. The fluorescent glow of a soldier’s ID tag, he thought to himself, useful for keeping track of a group in the dark. He’d been ready all day, wondering who Ross would move onto after Scott, expecting the Secretary to get fed up of his own well-aimed glares and vocal complaints. That was pretty intentional, if Clint was honest with himself, like a distraction to draw fire from the rest of them. Nat would do the same for him if he needed it, he had reasoned, Steve too undoubtedly; not just for Clint himself, but for the whole team.

But _his_ door didn’t open and he didn’t hear the harshly whispered ‘up’ directed at him. His hands weren’t tied behind his back, or a strip of fabric clamped between his teeth to keep him from warning the others. Clint stayed on his bed as the small light passed his cell again and someone tripped over their own feet, earning a brief slap across the head.

Clint didn’t do any of that, but Scott did.

* * *

The room was the same although even the dim light made Scott screw his eyes closed as the blindfold was removed. The chair had been removed, and a metal table replaced it, the same restraints for the arms and legs joined by a chest strap. Scott hid an uneasy gulp, steadying his expression to one of indifference and fixing his hands together to stop them from shaking. Pain he could withstand, and water, as long as they didn’t force his head under for too long, but if it was a truth drug or something? Ant-Man training hadn’t ever allowed for kidnapping situations, or drug resistance for that matter.

“I don’t suppose you are ready to talk,” Ross’s voice spoke from behind him and the man crossed over to the table, sliding his hand across the metallic surface tentatively. “And whilst we can evade the watchful government eyes over certain things, truth-inducing drugs are not so easy to smuggle into the compound.”

Scott was led to the table as uncertainty plagued his mind. Not a truth drug, he concluded gladly, although he wasn’t sure what other implications that had. One soldier fastened his arms to the table as another tightened the chest strap, restricting Scott’s breathing painfully.

“Not so talkative tonight, Mr. Lang,” Ross continued formally, as if he wasn’t supervising an illegal interrogation. “All we wanted was a location, it could have been much easier.” His beady eyes were completely black in the weak light, pricked with a shining white reflection and anger. Scott flexed his hands in the restraints to distract himself from the noises around his head. He’d only been to the hospital once or twice when he was younger. Appendicitis; a simple operation cured that one. But the metal table and the sound of surgical instruments on a tray resurfaced the same trepidation. He’d hated the anaesthetic injection, counting back from ten with the doctor in a small voice, his eyes fighting anxiously to stay open as his mind was taken from him.

Two needles appeared in his eye line and his muscles clenched involuntarily. Ross smirked at the sight and patted the arm nearer to him.

“I would try to relax, if I were you,” he instructed, “We wouldn’t want to cause you any unnecessary pain.” Scott shied away from his touch but went slack under his grip, blinking harshly at the prick of a needle in his skin followed by another in his other arm.

“Barbiturate in one arm,” Ross’s voice seemed to grow distant as a cool fluid seeped up Scott’s veins. His eyes began to slip closed as he lost the sensation of the metal against his skin. “Amphetamine in the other.”

A few moments later, a similar sensation crept up his other arm and his eyes snapped open at the conflicting effects of the two drugs. He alternated like this for some time, eyes first slipping closed and then being forced open again. Finally he seemed to settle in a halfway state, unable to comprehend much but painfully aware of his surroundings despite the tunnel vision.

“Any time you remember something,” Ross said close to his ear, the sound almost deafening, “Just let us know.” He turned away from Scott’s head and gave another order that was lost in the tidal wave continually crashing over Scott’s ears, filling them with static. He wanted to close his eyes, to drift away with the cold liquid running through his body but he didn’t move. He couldn’t move.

* * *

Clint didn’t sleep. 

The lights blinked on again the next morning, or at least Clint called it morning. As he suspected, Wanda and Sam were there, both in the same positions they had been the night before. Sam slept on his front, face forced against his thin pillow and hands over his head. Wanda curled towards the back wall, her long hair trailing away across the covers, hands still restrained at her back.

There was half a glass of water and a meagre slice of bread at the door of each cell. Clint had heard movement maybe an hour before the lights switched on, but hadn’t tried to move. His thoughts were filled with Scott, and later on Steve. Captain America would save them, he’d told himself the first time, starting to realise the impracticality of making it an inside job, but by the time he could see again, Clint wasn’t so sure. Ross seemed to be far off the radar, several miles in the wrong direction of legal. He also wondered if Stark knew anything about it all, or cared.

Tony had been reduced to a mere surname in the archer’s head; it was easier to separate pre-accords Tony with post-accords Stark. A less painful loss of a friendship. Clint was sure, despite what his hungry, tired brain told him, that Tony would never authorise anything or be involved in anything like the Raft. He was less sure, but still almost certain, that ‘Stark’ wouldn’t either.

“Where’s Scott?” Wanda had woken up and positioned herself at the door, looking at the slice of bread and then over her shoulder at her tied hands. She lifted her eyes to meet Clint’s, swallowing heavily at the exhausted look he returned.

“He’s not there?” Clint clarified, having hoped he was just out of sight. Wanda shook her head and he sighed. “They took him last night after the lights were switched off.”

“Shit,” Sam replied, eyes instantly alert and back straight, despite the fact he’d barely woken up seconds before. “What do they want with him?”

They think he’s going to break first, Clint almost said, although really that was unfair. Scott on any other day would have been just fine, but Ross had to choose the one time he came crashing to the floor and woke up in a prison cell. Clint tore at the crusts of the slice of bread to distract himself, eating the tasteless food without really registering it, noticing that the pangs of hunger in his stomach did not alleviate, nor did the scratchiness of his throat when he downed the water.

If he’d been asked, Clint probably wouldn’t have identified the man who returned, carried by two guards, as Scott Lang. His bare arms were littered with incisions, surgically precise and unsettling. His wrists, turned out as his hands were released from the cuffs, were bruised slightly as if a needle had been forcefully removed. And his blue trousers were tainted red, a telling sign of cuts further below the fabric. He was practically dropped at the door, thankfully in sight of Clint although this did little to settle the other man’s nerves. The guards were silent as they left the room, failed S.H.I.E.L.D initiative throwing Clint a smug look over his shoulder, only giving him another reason to punch the soldier.

Sam stood imposingly at the glass for a moment before sitting tiredly on the floor, no longer restless or agitated, but seeming only concerned. The hardness behind his eyes was reduced to tumultuous brown, blazing protectively as he watched Scott’s back closely. Clint followed suit, counting every breath gratefully, and noticing Wanda do the same.

“Scott?”

“Tic-Tac?”

“Give us a sign, Scotty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a long one today!
> 
> It may seem like this is an anti-Tony fic, but he will be painted in a slightly better light in future chapters, don’t worry!!
> 
> Thank you for reading :)


	3. Deals with Devils

_“Scott?”_

_“Tic-Tac?”_

_“Give us a sign, Scotty.”_

Scott eventually inhaled deeply, the breath catching in his throat desperately as his eyes flew open. His arms were still locked behind his back, one folded beneath his slumped body as the other rested over the top.

“C-c-can’t m-move,” he choked out across a breath, almost inaudible over the heavy inhalations and exhalations. Clint glanced at Sam calmly, pushing the concern from his expression and facing Scott tentatively.

“Hey, Scott? We’re going to need to slow your breathing down, buddy.”

Scott’s head nodded slightly as it pressed against the floor. He held his breath for a moment and then let it out slowly, and though it hitched slightly in his throat, he seemed to calm down. Sam had clenched his hands into fists again, pushing them firmly against the glass in silent, seething rage but Clint stared pointedly at him and breathed in deeply through his nose indicatively. Take a breath, Wilson, he demanded silently.

“S-still can’t m-move,” Scott muttered a little louder, his top arm twitching slightly in a spasm as he concentrated on flexing his fingers. The action sent a short groan through his breath and his head reeled against the floor.

“Take your time, Scott,” Sam spoke abruptly from the opposite side of the room, “You’ll hurt yourself.” If it wasn’t Scott and they weren’t in prison, Clint would probably have made a sarcastic comment: he was already pretty hurt anyway.

“How long?” Scott’s question was downhearted, melancholy. Sam rested his forehead on the cold glass for a split second, his slow breath clouding the material.

“I don’t know, buddy,” he replied honestly, “But you won’t be able to move until you calm yourself down.”

The doors opened again and Ross strolled in calmly, his eyes diverted from Scott in blissful ignorance. The corners of his mouth turned up in a cruel rendition of a smile at the sight of Clint, his back pushed as far as it would go against the wall as he watched Scott closely.

“Is there something wrong with the rest of your cell, Mr. Barton?”

Clint glowered and turned his head away from the approaching general determinedly. He kept his face angled towards the ground but his eyes still wandered to Scott across the floor. Ross seemed to notice, placing his body between the two of them forcibly.

“I asked you a question, Mr. Barton,” he reminded with a delicate warning behind his words. Clint bit his tongue for a moment longer before tilting his head to one side slightly.

“I want five minutes with Scott, and a first aid kit,” he began softly, lowering his voice as he continued, “What will it cost me?” Ross’s face contorted again into one of selfish joy. He paused for a moment, eyes scrutinising Clint as he appeared to think.

“Doing a deal with the devil? I don’t think prison works like that, Mr. Barton. Your friend, Mr. Lang, was aware of the consequences when he joined your little club.” Maybe he saw a hint of desperation in Clint’s eyes, because he smiled sweetly again and almost laughed out loud. “Retirement has made you weaker, Mr. Barton.”

He stepped away as a soldier held a small phone up from the side of the room. The screen was lit up with a call that seemed to pique Ross’s interest because he abandoned the sneering comment he was poised to make and crossed the room swiftly.

“Tony Stark,” he said into the receiver, “Always a pleasure.” Clint’s skin crawled slightly; the images of Tony and this ‘Stark’ character he had created to distance his friend from the mess they had landed in were beginning to blur. He zoned out of Ross’s conversation and slid down the wall, leaning his back against the white tiles exhaustedly. Several nights without sleep were beginning to take their toll.

“Scott, you still with us?” Scott nodded his head and hummed lightly, his fingers now moving independently, only sending infrequent spasms up his arm muscles.

“Keep working on it, buddy,” Clint intoned softly, trying to fend off the autopilot mode that was beginning to infiltrate his head. Useful on those remote missions with little to no contact, distancing yourself from a character, sent to infiltrate some crime ring or other; not so handy on a floating prison.

Ross finished his call with Tony abruptly, his complexion slightly pale and shoulders tense. He muttered a terse list of instructions to the younger soldier who stood to attention at his side, her gaze directed firmly away from Scott’s cell.

“Five minutes. And a roll of bandages.”

“Done.”

* * *

Tony sat with his feet up on the cluttered desk, the mud on the sides of his shoes dirtying maps that detailed dead ends in the search for Steve Rogers. He had been refraining from making the call, flipping the landline phone over and over in his restless hands, but one glance at the stained maps tipped the desperate man over the edge.

You see, he was getting concerned. It was so far from Captain America’s squeaky clean image to go chasing ghosts. And Tony had almost convinced himself that Steve had given up on Barnes, or at least had the common sense to accept a lost cause when it slapped him in the face. That was before he found out the photos were fake, before he realised Steve wasn’t hiding a known criminal, responsible for detonating a bomb. So now, he was just concerned. And afraid, if he was in a generous mood, afraid that whatever the two of them had gone chasing, was a little too much for the two war heroes to face alone.

And that was why he phoned Ross. Not because he was slightly concerned over the whereabouts of the remaining avengers, firmly pushing the images of Clint being led away from his mind. Not because he needed a distraction as Rhodes lay in a hospital bed. It was Steve and only Steve, he promised himself, although that was far from an ideal lie to tell himself.

“Secretary Ross,” he greeted with a false level of cheeriness so far from authentic, he winced himself. Tony listened to the grovelling reply of the military man, rolling his eyes to himself and wishing there was a way of audibly expressing such an action.

“I have some news for you, sir,” he continued eventually, lying easily, “A possible lead, yes. But I need to verify something with one of your prisoners; Sam Wilson?” Ross hesitated for a second before agreeing and promising to send some coordinates to Tony as soon as possible. Stark didn’t add that he had already been tracking the slightly shady ‘Raft’ ever since he discovered that the avengers were being held captive there. There was still a hesitation to Ross’s tone and a vocal need to know the contents of the false lead immediately.

“No, nothing solid to share with you at the moment. I wouldn’t want to send your men on a wild goose chase.” There was till hesitation behind the terse reply but moments later, Tony smiled, one step closer to finding Steve.

* * *

Two soldiers opened Clint and Scott’s doors at the same time, one fastening tight handcuffs around Clint’s wrists. Scott barely reacted, his arms still locked behind him, except for startling as the cold air of the main room made contact with his skin. Clint turned around dutifully, offering his hands almost immediately and making a mental note to tread carefully. He could hold off on rocking the boat for five minutes if it would get him closer to his teammate.

“Clint?” Wanda looked up from her bed where she had been sat cross-legged, watching Scott as her hands rubbed together impatiently. Clint could almost picture the red sparks she wished she could send cascading over Scott’s forehead, manipulating his brain for a moment, taking some of the pain away. Sam looked up too, a frown on his face. “What’s going on?”

Rather than replying, Clint let them watch as he was led to the open door next to his own cell, the handcuffs removed as he was pushed through the door insistently, it closing behind him immediately. A first aid kit was dropped through the narrow window in the door, its contents spilling on the floor, revealing only a few cotton wool pads and a small bottle of antiseptic liquid.

“I’m coming up behind you, Scott,” Clint told the other man cautiously, watching him start slightly and crane his neck to look around. He narrowed his eyes for a second, eyebrows furrowing as he looked up tiredly.

“What did you do to earn this?” he mumbled almost incoherently, “Sell your soul or something?” Clint chuckled a little sadly, sitting in front of him with the small pouch of materials and reaching a hand out carefully.

“Do you mind if I touch you?” he checked as casually as he could, swallowing a lump as it formed in his throat, only to find another growing rapidly after it. Scott shook his head almost resignedly, his eyes a little more alert than they had been and warm. Clint was surprised, after all that time, to see the softness in his friend’s irises, the hazel colour still glimmering endlessly under exhausted eyelids. He lowered his hand onto Scott’s arm, trying to find the clearest patch of skin and tentatively squeezed. The man lying on the floor breathed out a sigh of relief, his eyes closing and the tension in his shoulders falling away.

“You could have got out of the airport, you know,” he stated matter of factly as Clint began to pour some of the liquid onto one of the few cotton wool pads. He shrugged in reply, unable to stop his calm demeanour from falling away for a second. Scott still noticed.

“You didn’t have to look after me,” he murmured softly, the words suddenly escaping in a stream of conscience, “You could have got Sam and Wanda out, got back to your family, carried on like nothing had happened.”

“And your family?” Clint retorted, keeping the frustration from his tone, “What about them? What about you, Scott?” Scott’s muscles tensed for a moment as the lotion seeped through the still open cuts.

“I’d have been alright,” his voice cracked slightly, still rough and harsh. Clint didn’t stop the small snort of derision that escaped his pursed lips as he swabbed Scott’s arms gingerly. He didn’t bother trying to remind Scott that he’d be in the same predicament, minus the moral support, if they weren’t there, holding off reluctantly.

“Can you move yet?” He changed the subject firmly, waiting for Scott to test his limbs experimentally, pausing on one leg.

“Not this one,” he patted his right leg, the slow action causing his eyes to slip closed again from the effort before he forced them open, holding Clint’s eyes with his own in an attempt to stay alert.

Clint helped him to his feet, shrugging one arm over his shoulder and letting him limp to the bed. He knelt down to sit Scott more comfortably at the foot of the bed, glancing up at him briefly before moving to get up. Scott’s barely responsive arms stopped him tentatively, wrapping around his shoulders. He was tentative, awkward at first, as if he was worried Clint might push him across the room and demand to be let out. Clint lifted his own arms and patted his back softly, smoothing the fabric of Scott’s shirt in small circles and feeling the other man’s head rest on his shoulder.

“I’m getting us out of here, and if I don’t, Steve will,” he reassured him at a whisper, the pause for Scott to reply so long, he thought he might have been too quiet.

“I know,” came the murmured response, “I’m not going to tell them anything.” Clint nodded but he was glad Scott couldn’t see the concern on his face.

“It’s not worth your life, Lang,” his tone changed to one he might have used when directing rookie agents in the field. He didn’t usually get a melancholy laugh in response, pulling away from Scott and frowning at him firmly.

“It’s got to be worth something,” Scott replied before glancing at the floor guiltily, “And I feel like it’s on me, kinda, that we’re all in here. The least I can do is keep Steve and Bucky away from it all.”

“There was no choice,” Clint said sharply.

“There could have been,” Scott smiled sadly as if he knew something that neither of them would acknowledge.

“No.” Clint shook his head and stared Scott down. “I did the only thing I could do and the only thing I would do if I had to do it again.” This lighted a small, if reluctant, smile on Scott’s face, one corner of his mouth uplifted slightly at the promise despite the sudden, desperate sadness that encapsulated his eyes.

Clint could hear the door open and stood up without being told, tossing the empty bottle of lotion into the bag and passing it behind him to the waiting soldier. He glanced at Scott for a moment longer, seeing what he imagined his own face to look like, minus the cuts and blood; pinched lines across his forehead, pale and malnourished skin stretched more thinly across the bones, tired bruises beneath heavily lidded eyes.

“I won’t let you die in here; we’re a team,” he whispered under his breath, patting Scott’s shoulder again with one hand, watching as Scott lifted a shaky arm to rest his own palm on top.

* * *

Stark rested his feet on the empty seat opposite him in the peaceful helicopter. His gaze wandered over the tiled ceiling, following every crack to every possible destination, the menial task keeping his brain occupied where the lacklustre view of raging, stormy seas failed. There was something about the idea of the Raft that made him uncomfortable; the isolation of it for starters and, not least, the fact that there were people he once called friends buried somewhere at the bottom of it.

Perhaps another contributing factor was his reason for visiting. Tony was a proud man, undoubtedly, proud of the research he put in before choosing a side of a battle, proud of his own ability to make, if not the best one for everyone, the right decision for the greater good. And he hated admitting he was wrong, hated going to people who no longer considered him a friend for help. Above all, he hated what would follow if he was successful; the look on Cap’s face, disappointment, maybe a hint of forgiving if he was lucky. And James Barnes; victimised by the government, by the people who chose to follow Iron Man, by Tony himself. Sentenced to death for a crime he hadn’t committed: a thought that plagued Tony’s rapidly firing mind.

“Landing in five minutes, boss,” the pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. Tony sat up straighter in his seat, removing his feet from the comfortable leather and polishing a speak of dust with his finger. He smoothed his suit jacket and checked his watch a final time, the display still working through the defence systems of the prison. It was fortunate really, that between the pride and the moral compass, Tony would still break a law he’d had others arrested for; for the greater good. It would only take a few minutes and then Tony Stark would undoubtedly have broken a couple of clauses in the Sokovia Accords. He wondered if the punishment was worse if your signature was all over the document you’d gone against. He stopped wondering pretty quickly, not liking the conclusions he drew. Then again, he’d been imprisoned in a cave with nothing but a magnet keeping him alive. How bad could a government-run, floating jail really be?

There were some people in the world that Tony tolerated (yes, for the greater good, once again) and Ross was one of them. Everything, from his smug smile to his ideologies, right down to his constantly impeccable suits, got on Tony’s nerves. Tony followed him from the hangar with a singular, scoping glance of the large room. He spotted the cameras almost instantly, pleased to note they were the model he had expected.

“-they really are state of the art facilities,” Ross was droning on in front of him, his impossibly reflective shoes slapping out a military beat across the tiles, “I think it always makes people feel safer if they know that those who pose a threat are kept somewhere secure. Now, of course-” Tony tuned out again at the mention of the ‘threats’ that he preferred to call friends. Or maybe called was more accurate, because he didn’t have high expectations.

“The man of the hour,” Clint intoned dully from his cell as Tony stepped through the slickly sliding doors. Expectations sent plummeting to the floor, and then sinking to the bottom of the ocean, it seemed.

“Here to gloat?” Tony approached the glass door wordlessly, picking up on the caged animal atmosphere with a stomach turning realisation almost immediately. “Is this what you call justice for the people _we’ve_ killed? Because there’d be a hell of a lot more blood on our hands if we didn’t step up to the plate, Stark.”

“This wasn’t my choice,” Tony replied as airily as he could manage, “You, Sam and Wanda knew the consequences. Your other recruit has been in jail before if I remember correctly.” Clint’s hard stare narrowed fractionally and he approached the glass, his feet planted in what Tony took to be a warning stance.

“Scott, Wanda, Sam and I made a choice to do what was right. I suppose I just thought that was part of your thing too,” Clint responded quietly, his volume dangerous, not hesitant, “I guess you keep it up for the image when it’s important, huh?” That hurt, a little, but Tony maintained a level face, smoothening his roughened facial features behind a mask.

“You broke the law,” Tony stated matter of factly, watching Clint’s eyes move microscopically towards the partitioning wall to another cell.

“We’re not the only ones,” he replied more softly, leaning his hands flat against the cool glass, displaying his slightly slimmer figure directly in Tony’s face. The latter wanted to ask what they were being fed, but his chance was gone too soon as Clint pushed himself away and began to circle the small room like a predator.

Tony continued to walk, passing the adjacent cell with what he intended to be a brief glance. He felt the full impact of the ‘zoo animal’ effect as he almost stopped walking altogether, his eyes glued to what he could see beyond the glass. The new guy, Scott, was not pacing the small strip of enclosure between him and the opposite wall. He didn’t even glare in Tony’s direction as he heard footsteps. No, whilst his head faced in the right direction, one hand almost completely obscured his eyes from Tony. He seemed to attempt a withering glance, aborting halfway at what could only be described as a pained expression. Tony inhaled a deep breath that seemed to contain very little air and forced his feet to move again, pressing play on his composure, resetting his mouth into a straight line.

“Great plan, this was,” Sam greeted him with a sarcastic smile, “Throw us in a high security prison, pulling people away from their families.” He opened his mouth to continue with his list, only nodding over Tony’s shoulder in the direction of Scott’s cell.

“It’s torture, Stark,” Sam whispered angrily, “He has a daughter waiting for him to come home. And it’s bad enough for the rest of us, having to watch, never mind for him.” Tony switched the microphones to each cell off with a few swift taps of the display on his watch and holding the device in Sam’s eye-line, away from the cameras.

“We can talk in private,” he explained swiftly, “But only for a minute or two. Has anyone else been hurt?” Sam shook his head, although the look of betrayal never left his penetrating gaze.

“Listen,” Tony began as patiently as he could muster, “I know what happened now, I made a mistake. Barnes is an innocent man, as far as I’m concerned, but I need to get the message to Steve. Where is he?” Sam looked reluctant, his shoulders lifting in a half shrug before he seemed to reconsider.

“Scott’s been putting up with this for days to keep this a secret,” he said first, stating the fact as an accusation, “They went to Siberia, looking for the other super soldiers.”

Siberia. That was manageable, given the time pressure. Tony’s fingers hovered above his watch, almost returning the audio signal to the CCTV cameras before hesitating.

“How much longer can he keep quiet?” he asked shortly, nodding his head over his shoulder. Sam shot him a withering look and shrugged his shoulders; his eyes, whilst they were angry looking into Tony’s, melting into a pool of worry.

“He’ll hold on,” he replied eventually, no longer seeming to be talking to Tony, “But I get the feeling that Ross will take it too far before he reins it in.” Sam didn’t need to finish that sentiment for the implications to weigh heavily on Tony’s shoulders. He nodded, fixing the hardened mask once more over his turbulent expression and turning away.

His path back to the main door took a detour, leading his feet almost automatically to Scott. The other man, far less intimidating without his suit and tendency to disappear in a blink of an eye, glanced up, managing a stronger glare through the web of fingers that supported his head.  
It was only when Tony forced himself to really look that he took in the extent of the mosaic of bruises painted across fragile, pale skin. But the worst, a sight that sent bile rising up Tony’s constricting throat; a scattered trail of red notches up his arm, every incision an unanswered question, bleeding lies and silences. Yes, Tony was a proud man, but he wasn’t beyond debt, no less capable of feeling grateful. And here was a man, with no loyalties to Tony and few to Steve, now protecting the two of them as Tony planned to join the captain in Siberia. 

_He has a daughter_. That voice wasn’t going away anytime soon. And Tony couldn’t wrap his head around it, which only annoyed him further; Scott had a reason to get out, a reason to sell Steve’s location for his own freedom. What reason did he have to stay there? What reason would he ever have to join the Avengers if they all got out and got back together? The group was dying, dead really, Tony had decided on his own. There were too many Tonys and too many Steves, but not quite enough Scotts.

“I’m working on it,” he said under his breath as he turned away, careful to keep his mouth hidden from the cameras, “We’ll get you out of here.”

But if Scott heard, he made no effort to acknowledge Tony. He turned fully on the bed to watch him step backwards. With his face in full view, Tony saw the expression, void of sadness, anger or any real emotion. He was a blank canvas, a sculptor transferring every feeling locked behind his eyes to Tony as the free man felt himself becoming trapped, experiencing the fear, the fading hope. And finally, Tony allowed the mask to fall away, burning to a small pile of embers at his feet as his eyebrows knitted together, drawing his forehead into a terrain of mountainous contours. He switched the cameras back on without thinking and turned away, only exhaling as the sliding door closed firmly behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is partially prewritten but I still have a couple of things up in the air that I want to get your input on. The biggest is any relationship in this fic. I’ve got a list of potential ones and I could do a couple, if they fit together, so let me know what you want to see:  
> Scott and Sam  
> Scott and Steve  
> Steve and Tony  
> Scott and Tony? (Is this a thing?)  
> I would say Clint and Scott but I kind of like the friends/dads-on-the-team vibe with those two and I don’t want Clint to be going around ruining his marriage :p
> 
> Also, for anyone who reads one in a million, I’m not slacking on those updates. There will be one tomorrow or the day after if I cannot manage it (maybe one on both if you’re lucky!). It’s just that this is written in advance so I can post a lot of it whenever I have time to finish a chapter but with that one I have to write a whole seven page chapter each time I want to publish.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and let me know what you think about the relationships :)


	4. Stakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please be wary of the tags and warnings in this chapter. There is nothing too explicit or graphic but rape/non-con is heavily implied and eluded to**
> 
> (This is the first time I ever tried to write something like this, hence the more vague details. I don’t want it to seem like I’m trivialising anything because, trust me, I’m not; I just didn’t want to do a bad job of covering a more serious topic)

Tony escaped Ross’s gleeful, not too subtle conversations as he left the compound, although he was glad that Scott could serve as a distraction to keep the ‘faulty’ audio connection from coming up more than once. He astutely ignored the writhing, twisting feel in his stomach at the thought of using a man who was already breaking at the edges, or else totally shattered inside but keeping up appearances. Tony knew all about that; about the glassy eyed look and the inability to morph a blank face into something acceptably cheerful.

It was that thought that sent him to work in the back of the lonely helicopter. Before he could think of Siberia, or the super soldiers, or Steve. Before he could think about the world, and saving it. Before all that, he worked on saving the team.

* * *

Still seething from the very sight of Tony, Clint chose to ignore the billionaire’s quiet promises to Scott, electing instead to mentally slate him for even daring to make eye contact with the man next door. In fact, he was pacing so loudly he barely noticed his door swing open by itself, pausing mid-stride and looking up at Sam whose feet were toeing the line between his cell and the main room.

“Stark?” Sam asked, hesitantly stepping across the boundary, away from his own open cell. Clint shook his head, doing the same, with a sympathetic glance towards Wanda, who stood disappointed behind her own locked door.

“Too fast,” he reassured himself, hating to think he might owe his ‘friend’ anything. He cast an eye towards the closed sliding door to the rest of the compound and approached Scott’s room instead. “How are you holding up?”

Scott shrugged emptily, aiming a poor attempt at a smile in his direction and scrubbing a hand over his eyes. He didn’t try to get up, his feet pawing at the ground in front of him lightly but staying firmly locked against his bed. Fear, Clint contemplated, fear of stepping out of line. Like Stockholm Syndrome, only the continued compliance was a survival technique, not some hopeless romantic move. Not that Scott hadn’t seemed like the sort to be a hopeless romantic once or twice, Clint thought with an internal, wry grin. But not right now, not anymore.

“Hey, Tic-Tac,” Sam tried to sound cheerful, although face to face, and without the distance to obscure the extent of Scott’s injuries, he couldn’t hide the way his expression fell, “We’re gonna get you out of here, right, Clint?” 

“Right, Clint?” Sam repeated as he turned away from the cell and made eye contact with Barton, ceiling vent connoisseur and master spy, only to find him shaking his head, out of sight of Scott. Sam headed over to him and lowered his voice. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t like it,” Clint admitted under his breath, “Seriously, the security around here is ridiculous. Thinking we might get out like this is out of the question. Say it’s Stark; what do we do now? He’s arrogant but not confident enough to attempt a prison break whilst he’s here on business. This is a remote job which means it’s you and me, against all of them.” Clint waved his hand over to the closed main door.

“And you don’t fancy our odds?” Sam tried to sound defiant but chose to answer for himself, “You’re right. But Ross will have Scott’s head for this.”

“I know,” Clint replied coolly, stepping further from Scott’s cell as if physical distance equated to a lessening protective instinct. “Maybe we should just go and sit back in our cells.”

“This is a reassuring rescue attempt,” Wanda commented as the two men did just that, an understanding but mischievous glimmer flickering in her eyes. Clint returned the look half-heartedly and shrugged his shoulders.

“Not desperate enough to go on a suicide mission yet,” he replied calmly, although his feuding mind argued otherwise. As it was, Scott had a one way ticket to getting himself killed; and buying him a return home might just cost a life. Still, Clint wasn’t one to get desperate.

Ross was pleased, when he stepped through the door a few minutes later. Clint could see the confidence, and the power, radiating from him as he stepped through first, unarmed and perfectly relaxed.

“An excellent choice,” he remarked smoothly before turning to Clint, “I’m glad you seem to be learning, Mr. Barton. So glad, in fact, that your punishment may seem more like a reward.” His eyes hardened and he stood at the open door of Clint’s cell with a calculating frown.

“After our little deal earlier, I’m sure you’ll be happy to hear that the four of you will be kept in one cell from now on.” Clint narrowed his eyes at the proposition, keeping his mouth shut, not rocking the boat, but far from happy.

“Why?” 

“Security issues,” Ross’s mouth downturned further and he regained that look of unpredictable anger, “And I really do hope they were a fault in the system, and not a deliberate infiltration.” He stepped delicately over to Scott’s cell and placed a hand on the glass in warning.

“Because if our diagnostics tests come back clean,” he continued delightedly, “I think we all know what that might mean for one of us here.” Clint swallowed the little saliva from his dry mouth, keeping his palms resting flat on the wrinkled covers of his bed. Finally, he nodded in understanding and, when a tentative rookie came in with a set of handcuffs, his very stance asking to be attacked, Clint did nothing but offer up his hands, palms up, peaceful.

* * *

Sam, Clint and Wanda were taken to Scott’s cell and left at the closing door, two without cuffs, and the other with her hands still bounded behind her back. Clint took a moment to check Wanda over, having been furthest from her before. She rolled her eyes with a good natured smile fleeting across her face, muttering something under her breath about his desperate fathering habits but spun in a slow circle for him, allowing him to test the strength of the cuffs that held her hands behind her back.

“They’re not coming off,” he commented eventually, “And neither are these gloves, whatever they are.” She nodded in agreement, although he didn’t miss the despondent look on her face and looped an arm over her shoulder comfortingly for a moment. The two of them glanced towards the bed, where Sam perched precariously on the edge of the mattress, one hand slowly breaching the gap between him and Scott with aching hesitation. Scott, his head still resting on folded arms, must have noticed him, or felt the mattress sink slightly as he sat there, because one hand slid down his knees, brought up to his chest, and he rested his cautious fingers atop Sam’s. 

“This is better, right?” Sam broke the silence, glancing up at Clint who fought the urge to shrug, yell that he didn’t know all the answers and stalk to the corner of the tiny cell for some poor quality privacy.

“We’ll see,” he breathed out in exasperation, “We’ll see.”

* * *

When the lights blinked off that evening, Clint pushed himself up from the corner of the cell, realising that the whole privacy thing was even worse than he had expected. Wanda had joined Scott on the bed, sitting diagonally across from him with her own legs hugging her chest. She rubbed her gloved hands against the smooth walls every so often, a habit, it seemed, in an attempt to remove the itchy restraints. Sam had moved only to prop himself up between the wall and the back of the bed. Clint could see the same reluctance he had in himself reflected straight back, a fear that leaving Scott alone for a moment would send him blinking out of existence.

“We should all get some sleep,” Sam’s voice permeated the darkness eventually, shaking Clint from his position against the wall. He walked blindly to the foot of the bed and sat on the remaining corner of mattress, his bare feet brushing Scott’s reassuringly and his elbow bumping against Wanda’s. He couldn’t help but feel Sam’s suggestion pointed at him, sure the other man had noticed the shadows beneath his eyes and the fact that he always seemed to be up early. And so, he let his head nod sideways, finding Wanda’s as she leant against his shoulder and closed his eyes. And all it took was the pressure of Scott’s foot against his own for the paranoia to retreat away into the shadows and he could breathe more easi-

* * *

Blinded. His eyes shot open and shut in rapid succession. His first glance, an oversaturated view of white.

Heart. Accelerated and skipping every other beat. Diagnosis – adrenaline, caused by a shock.

Door. Flung open against the wall with a head splitting crack. The source of the shock. 

Breathe. Easier now. And then harder.

Ross stood at the door, angrier than Clint could remember, eyes void of the playful glint that simultaneously stripped his humanity and allowed him to retain a shred of it. Able to emote, but sick in the head. Now, just sick.

“Oh dear,” he spoke slowly, tasting the syllables as they left his mouth. Wanda had blinked the brightness away from her own vision, lifting her head from Clint’s shoulder and firing a Natasha-esque glare in his direction. Sam’s hand was already on Scott’s arm, calming the other man and pulling him close instinctively.

“Who would have thought Tony Stark had it in him?” Ross asked the room, enjoying Clint’s suddenly resigned look, “Signing my accords, imprisoning his friends but then having the nerve to try and rescue them.” His voice rose until he was shouting, the vein in his neck pulsating and clearly visible around the loosened collar of his shirt.

“You would have thought he had a plan,” his voice dropped again, dangerously low, “Breaking two of you out like that. Disabling the locking mechanisms on the doors. That was a mistake; not knowing what to do next. Unless he was relying on you; another mistake.” Clint moved to sit up on his heels but sat back at Ross’s raised hand.

“I warned you,” he continued with an air of calm, “You knew this was coming.” Sam didn’t release his grip on Scott, couldn’t bring himself to let go as the other man rested his free hand over the tightly clenched hands. He hadn’t spoken since the other three joined him in the cell, but with one look at Ross’s insistent expression he glanced at Sam.

“It’s alright.” It isn’t.

“Don’t make this any harder.” It couldn’t be.

“They’ll only make it worse if we fight it.” Still uncertain.

“Please, Sam.” Okay.

Sam withdrew his hand, clenching it into a fist, surrounded by his other fingers, pushing them beneath his feet to keep himself restrained, showing far more control than Clint had managed, watching Scott be held at gunpoint at the airport. And god, that felt like a century ago. But now, all over again, Scott was led away and Clint could do noting but watch on.

_Same room. Empty. Sat against the wall, back straight, eyes forward. Not going to flinch._

“I hate this.” Scott had been gone for half an hour. Sam had punched a wall until his knuckles bled and swung as if to keep going, only relenting when Clint wrapped an arm around his tensed shoulders. He let himself be led back to the bed, sitting deliberately so as to leave a gap for Scott. “I hate everything about this.”

_He is watching again, from the door of the room. And the man in front, his head close; recognisable, maybe. Scott isn’t sure anymore, the faces tend to blur, or he just isn’t conscious._

“What will they do to him?” Wanda didn’t want an answer, Clint could see it in her eyes. They were burning and he was sure there were those threads of red interwoven through her irises as if the power had left her hands and fled to her darkening pupils. Her hands struggled against the bonds more than usual, desperate to calm Sam as he stared unblinkingly across at the door. And it felt pathetic, Clint thought to himself drily, but he really wanted to go home.

_It already feels worse. There is a tension in the air, like some unspoken bond between Ross and the nameless man who sits in front of him, legs crossed on the floor. Scott is still sure he won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him react to anything, although a couple of ideas that run through his head send it spiralling into quiet panic. But he won’t flinch. Not until there are hands pressing against the waistband of his trousers._

Clint had no words left. He felt like a living ghost, numb to the sensation of the mattress beneath him, or Wanda’s arm brushing his. By the time an hour had passed, Clint had failed in his task. He wasn’t Steve. He couldn’t save his teammates, couldn’t do the noble thing, didn’t make the sacrifice. There had been an opportunity, a sea to fly his plane into. But he was still alive, and Scott was slowly freezing.

_There is a silent plea that remains unspoken. Scott flinches a mile away, pulling his head back and cracking it against the wall. His legs kick back flimsily, his energy already sapped from the walk to the room of nightmares. And he hasn’t had training, who has for this? But he can detach, always has, so he tries to let his mind leave the room, leave the planet, elevate itself to some other plane of existence. Anywhere but here, he prays silently to a deity he doesn’t believe in, anywhere at all. He doesn’t see it, he can distance himself that much, but there is an unrelenting feeling. He registers his limbs moving automatically to escape it, backing him into a corner that darkens with the appearance of a looming shadow. And he feels every second, feels the unclean sensation he’s heard about in the darkly muttered news stories, feels the pain long after it should have stopped. And even when he is sure he feels nothing, when it’s all over, the nothing is the loudest, least empty nothing he’s ever experienced._

_His assailant‘s face is no longer recognisable when Scott checks back in. He’s laid out on the grimy floor, his back pressed achingly into the brick wall behind him, as if he was hoping he could phase straight through it. In fact, the man in front of him is nothing more than an animal, all bared teeth and satisfaction painted across his face. Ross stands close behind with an expression to match and they really make the perfect pair. The general looks out of place in a uniform, that look on his face a world away from the right look for a soldier. He didn’t deserve to wear the clothes Steve had worn all those years ago with such pride, such honesty. But now, looking up at Ross, Scott sees nothing but lies, betrayal and twisted joy. And this is the man standing, elevating himself on a pedestal as Scott cowers in the dust and the dirt, feeling no more significant than the particles that stick to his clothes._

Sam’s head had been buried into his hands for a long time before the door opened again. He was reluctant to look up, now happy to take Scott in whatever state he had been in before, not wanting to make the new Scott real. But he couldn’t lie to himself about the whispered profanities that left Clint’s hitched breaths, or Wanda’s shiver that shook the bed. So he looked up at the door, at Ross who finally looked satisfied and then at Scott. There wasn’t a smile, even the weakest on Earth, for Sam to muster. He moved first, taking an unsteady Scott from Ross’s outstretched arm, never pausing to glare at him for an eternity as he would have liked to. He immediately noticed the tension, unrelenting and clenched across Scott’s shoulder blades. Releasing his quivering arm, Sam watched the strain leak from Scott’s shoulders as he stared at the floor with tumultuous eyes. His gaze somehow avoided the three of them in the tiny room and he seemed to shrink to the size of an ant without needing to use the suit. There were fresh bruises, Sam noticed as he catalogued the new marks, filing them away with the rest; they littered his wrists and disappeared down his shirt sleeves. The harsh blue fabric was crumpled and creased as if he'd been rolling on the floor for hours and fresh stains joined the slowly browning red ones that had been there previously. Sam's hand rested a short distance from Scott's arm, close enough to transmit what little heat remained in his quivering, malnourished skin.

“D’you want to sit down, Scott?” Clint found his voice eventually and led Scott to the bed, his hand ghosting his back but never touching it. Wanda had stood up and sat on the floor swiftly, her legs shaking in silent rage. Scott soon lay down on the bare mattress hunched on his side, away from the others.

He was screaming in his head, an unrelenting, unstoppable sound that left his ears ringing. But he was trapped by some invisible barrier, the protective layer of dirt that felt as if it was consuming him, not really there but crawling across his skin. He shouted until his lungs burned and his eyes were blinded with the water that filled them.

But he hadn’t made a sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know how this chapter came across if you have any feedback. Like I said at the start of the chapter, I only have reading experience of this subject so I tried to leave it more up to reader interpretation.
> 
> On a slightly lighter note, I apologise for the lack of publishing recently; I have bits and pieces of chapters all over the place and I’m just waiting for the motivation to fill in the blanks to get coherent chapters together.


	5. Reform

The white walls were blinding, the tiles gleaming with moisture and the sparkle of antiseptic spray. The smell filled the room too; that cloying, choking scent of manufactured flowers that reminded him more of petrol than plants.

It was silent, he presumed, although the pounding in his head made it hard to focus. The blue clothes were gone, replaced with soft white fabric that was somehow more disconcerting. The cotton shirt, buttoned to the neck with a neat collar, fit snugly to his figure, accounting for the evident weight loss of the past week. His legs were covered by white trousers, tailored carefully to hang just over his ankles, never touching the floor. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, which was draped in white linen only, and tested the temperature of the floor tiles with his bare feet, flexing his toes experimentally. It was a little cold but not uncomfortably so; somehow this only sent another chill up his spine. The stillness of the air was enough to send his mind into fight or flight mode, paranoia seeping into his bones.

Scott’s eyes darted around the room, only just noticing the lack of a door as they did so, failing to find any way out, any imperfection in the white. He absentmindedly rubbed his palms against the soft bedsheets, craving any sensation, any feeling towards anything. Closing his eyes, he flinched at the imprint of brightness scalding his eyelids and screwed them further shut.

They opened once more and Scott recoiled across the bed. The lights were equally as bright but the tiles no longer gleamed with the sure sign of sterilisation. He withdrew his feet from the floor, feeling the drop of temperature across his bare skin. And the clothes, once untouched, were creased and torn at, his shirt collar rumpled and top buttons undone.

Scott ran his hands down his worn trousers, turning away at the sight of blood and stains blossoming across the soft cotton. He pressed his palms against his eyes and sucked in as much of the stagnant air as he could hold, releasing it in an unsteady stream of worry.

The room changed again, with Scott lying back on the bed, his eyes immediately meeting those of Clint who leant against the opposite wall. Sam and Wanda were there too, paying him no mind as they sat together in one corner. Scott searched for his voice in the cavernous void of whiteness, coming up short and gesturing his hands in a way that he hoped conveyed some meaning.

“How did you let them do this to you?” Clint sounded cold, detached. His voice was monotonous, eyes wandering disinterestedly and flickering across his figure occasionally with disdain. “Snap out of it Lang.”

Scott blinked once and then twice, finding Clint’s hands in his face, the loud sound of clicking fingers filling the room. He allowed darkness to wash over him again, finding himself lying down on his side and the hands gone. 

“You need to wake up!” Scott heard all three voices sound in unison, echoes of each other in the prison cell. He turned his head this way and that to hear every inch of the reverberations, screwing his hands into fists and crumpling the bedsheets under his hands. Clint almost looked sympathetic, the furrows of concern infiltrating his otherwise expressionless face. He stepped forwards of his own volition, kneeling on the floor next to the bed and resting a hand nearby to Scott’s head. Scott could feel the heat from his palms but he never got close enough to feel the calloused skin against his own. That, he was grateful for.

“Come on Scott,” the Clint in front of him murmured, “It’s over now.”

* * *

Tony landed gently in the snow outside of an old bunker. The tin entrance was covered entirely in a monumental snow drift, making it almost invisible from the outside. He shivered in the sub-zero temperatures despite the protective casing of red metal encasing each limb. 

“Still detecting those life signals?” he asked the AI in his suit in a muted tone. Something about the stillness of the calm Siberian desert of ice made him want to use his indoor voice.

“Two just beyond the entrance, sir,” the robotic voice replied, “But the compound is buried deep underground and the layers of snow and ice may be tampering with my sensors.” Tony whistled through his teeth thoughtfully, the sound joining the high pitched whine of the wind.

“Now or never,” he muttered to himself, approaching the doorway uncertainly. Nearer to the entrance, he spotted two sets of footprints approaching the bunker from behind. The deduction was blatant – Steve and Barnes in one place. Together. Tony inhaled slowly through his nose; no need to get riled up. He had been wrong about James Barnes, that was all he had to say. And then his friendship with Steve would get back on track.

The entrance to the bunker existed in sharp contrast to the white landscape behind Tony, making him squint in the darkness until FRIDAY adjusted his view. In the low light of a dull, more discreet torch beam Tony glanced around at the aged technology. Computers lined the walls at regular intervals; massive structures with more circuit board than screen. The entire first room of the compound was lit by a single swinging lightbulb, long since blown out, littering the floor with tiny shards of erupted glass.

Tony did not spend too long in the hallway of HYDRA ghosts, sweeping around the room merely for investigative purposes before heading down the first set of metal stairs. He considered the old lift shaft for a moment before shaking his head; there was saving time and then there was pure stupidity. Trusting old HYDRA tech definitely fit the latter.

He turned a corner on the first level down and came face to face with the familiar shield and eagle eye of Captain America. Just beyond him, in the shadows, stood a steady Sergeant Barnes, gun aimed unwaveringly over Steve’s shoulder. Tony held his hands up warily and stepped forwards, trying not to shrink back at the sound of a gun’s safety being switched off.

“Buck,” Steve warned under his breath, the single word barely carrying to Tony, “Stand down.”

“Cap,” Tony greeted stiffly, redirecting Steve’s attention from over his shoulder, “Wilson said I’d find you here.” Steve frowned for a moment, as if the news confused him. Tony back-pedalled for a moment, images of the Raft puncturing his mind insistently.

“Not without a little coercion, I promise,” he reassured tentatively, a tone reserved for few people, “It’s why I’m here, actually.” Steve stood up, lowering his shoulder to reveal the same old uniform, as weary and tired as he seemed himself.

“Coercion?” he repeated sharply, his eyes set hard, “What sort of compound are they being held in?” Tony held his hands up again and stepped forwards, holding his palms out face up to calm him.

“Cap, I swear I didn’t know about anything,” he preemptively assured, “But Ross is operating outside of government territory. It’s some dubious, underwater place. The highest security prison there is.” Steve mulled over the information for a moment before turning his back on Tony. The latter took that as a good sign; after all, if Steve was happy to leave himself uncovered from behind, he must still hold a shred of trust for the man behind him.

“That would explain why we couldn’t find them,” Tony heard him mutter to Barnes.

“You trust this?” Bucky asked softly in reply, his tone not doubtful but cautious, “It could be a trap.”

“Not Tony,” Steve replied with a degree of certainty that brought a fleeting smile to Stark’s face, “He wouldn’t.”

“And me?” Bucky questioned again, “Does he still want to take me in? I didn’t do it, Steve.” Steve waved off his concern insistently, whispering something Tony couldn’t catch over the sound of creaking pipes and dripping water.

“How bad?” Steve redirected his attention again, eyes softer and full of concern for his team. Tony bit his tongue for a moment, wondering how to reply. Steve picked up on his hesitation immediately, covering the distance between them in an instant and placing a single hand on his arm. “Don’t lie to me, please.” Tony glanced up, saw the insistence, and nodded mutely.

“Lang,” he replied thickly, “He was holding out when I got there but-” Steve paced away with his hands on the back of his head.

“Why?” The million dollar question, Tony thought bitterly to himself. And what was the motive of a man going against the law? What information could possibly be so important?

“He wants to find you,” Tony muttered before clearing his voice and repeating the point so Steve could hear, “He wants to find you and Barnes.” Steve closed his eyes in exasperation and ran a hand through the beginnings of a beard.

“Anything else?”

“Pym’s research, I’d presume,” Tony replied speculatively, “If anyone’s likely to know-” He trailed off again, not needing to finish his sentence before Steve began nodding.

“God, Scott,” he whispered under his breath and paling a little before tilting his head to one side. Moments later, FRIDAY alerted Tony to a warm body approaching the staircase below. Steve glanced up at Tony and nodded his head to the metal railings behind him. “Hear that?” Tony closed the faceplate across his suit as a reply and followed Steve and Bucky to the stairwell.

“There are five supersoldiers down here, according to reports,” Steve whispered as they advanced together. His shield had been thrown up protectively, slightly covering Tony as well, despite his metal armour. The vibranium was scratched with age, something Tony only noticed up close – it looked as weathered as the captain himself.

“Call it, Cap,” Tony murmured, reminded suddenly of New York and the Chitauri. He imagined the dank, sewer-like corridors of the compound would be the ideal habitat for similar creatures.

“Buck, cover me from up here,” Steve ordered firmly, seeing the reluctance on his friend’s face, “Fire down the gap to draw their attention. Tony, stick behind me.”

The metal steps were echoing with footsteps before Tony or Steve set foot on them. The two shared a glance, both understanding the implications of the sounds. Someone was coming up to them.

“I must admit, I was disappointed,” a voice, thick with accent, called up to them. For the first time, Bucky’s steady arm wavered and he glanced across to Steve who had progressed just a few steps down.

“That’s him,” he warned delicately, “He knew the words to trigger me, Steve.” Steve nodded silently and planted his next foot on the stair down. Tony followed behind him, subconsciously checking his thruster fuel levels and arming his rockets surreptitiously. They didn’t have time to mess around. Although Steve would doubtlessly try to play the nice guy card, Tony thought fondly.

“Желание,” the voice spoke again, the foreign word rolling across his tongue delicately, as if he savoured each syllable. Steve glanced over his shoulder at the sound of it, making eye contact with Bucky firmly. Longing.

“Buck!” he called, unafraid of detection, “Get out of here.” Bucky opened his mouth to argue back but flinched at the beginning of the next trigger word.

“Ржав-” Tony heard the sound of footsteps clattering away, half stumbling across the metal gratings and turned to glance at Steve. They were down to two men.

“He’s gone,” Steve called down the stairs, “He won’t be any use to you now.” The voice grew silent, filling the air with the sounds of feet on metal once more. Steve braced himself on one of the landings, his shield held up in front of him.

“You really do disappoint me,” the man continued as if no one else has spoken, “Starks always do seem to be able to foil a plan without trying.” Tony tilted his head to one side at the mention of his name. He hadn’t raised his own voice, nor were the security cameras working; FRIDAY had checked.

“And he is here, isn’t he?” the voice spoke again, “On tender hooks, no doubt, now that he knows he has walked straight into my plan. Unfortunately, the two of you were taking far too long to reconcile your differences. And now, you have _bigger problems_ on your hands.” Tony caught a first glimpse of the man; narrow shouldered and hunched in the shadowy light of the staircase. He seemed unafraid, despite his nervous disposition, an eerie calm exuding from his lilting tone.

“We don’t have time for the usual villain theatricals,” he finally spoke for himself, watching Steve turn to him with widening eyes. He dropped his voice and rolled his eyes. “He knows I’m here, Steve. It’s like he said; self fulfilling prophecy and all that bullshit.” The captain nodded reluctantly and shifted his focus back to the man in front of them.

“Well, it really is a shame you dint make it downstairs,” the enigmatic figure continued delightedly, “You would have been so much more disappointed. We had old video footage, the perfect scene for a battle, it would have been majestic.”

“Why not wait for us?” Steve voiced their shared question.

“Life is short,” the man replied in a muted tone, “You talk too much.” He brandished a small device from his pocket, holding it threateningly where both heroes could see clearly. “So much in fact, that I had time to make new arrangements.”

“Bomb,” Tony identified softly, muttering from behind Steve, “Some sort of detonator, rigged to explosives below?” Steve hummed softly in agreement, nodding his head up the stairs.

“When I say run, we run,” he replied out of the corner of his mouth, raising his voice to talk to the stranger. “What do you intend to achieve with that?” Tony watched as Steve bounced restlessly on his heels.

“Why, Captain America, I intend to leave Mr. Stark wondering why he was ever drawn out here in the first place.”

“Go,” Steve urged, sending Tony retreating up the stairs rapidly. He paused at the top, eyeing the uncertain man behind him.

“We both go or we both stay,” he hissed agitatedly, “I don’t want to hear what he has to say, Steve. It’s in the past. You, me and the team, however, is very much in the present. I’d like to keep it that way.”

Steve seemed convinced, as he took off up the stairs, taking them two at a time and almost colliding with a surprised Tony.

“I thought you’d take more convincing,” Tony admitted loudly as they sprinted for the exit. Steve flashed a weary smile in his direction and threw a glance over their shoulder. In the distance, a rumble sounded and the ground shook precariously. The entrance was up ahead, a pinprick of light amongst darkness.

The roar below them grew louder, and a wave of warm air began to press against Tony’s back from inside the suit. He reached the exit and ducked through the narrow doorway, catching his breath in the blinding sunlight. 

“Where’s Steve?” Bucky’s voice was insistent and sudden from behind him. He held his gun up uncertainly, still pounded at the door as he had heard commotion. A blast of air cut off Tony’s reply, leaving him with a stale taste in his mouth. The final blast echoed across the barren landscape and silence returned, save for the sound of settling snow.

“Behind…” he began before trailing off and running for the door, “He was coming.” Bucky joined him at the doorway with a glowering frown on his face.

“Not again,” he muttered under his breath, “Not already.”

A cough sounded from the doorway and both of them ran to what remained of the bunker’s entrance. The shield, a little worse for wear but intact came skittering through the opening, followed by a slightly unsteady, stumbling figure. He collapsed on his knees, still coughing but otherwise okay.

“Steve?” Tony asked uncertainly, “Are you alright?” Steve glanced up, wiping a streak of ash from his face and nodding slowly.

“Not too bad,” he replied with a rasping breath and a smile. Bucky rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“You’re a madman,” he retorted amusedly. Tony had never seen him smile, or laugh. “Always leaving everything to the last second.”

“I’m a madman with a team to save,” Steve corrected with a glance towards Tony, “I assume you’re offering your assistance.”

“Always,” Tony replied, “Ross needs teaching a lesson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m slowly getting motivation back. All of your comments have really been helping, so thank you for all being so kind :)
> 
> I’ve unfortunately been unable to watch amatw because of the UK release date which might explain the writer's block because I’m avoiding everything to do with ant an at the moment, just in case!


	6. Rescue

Tony was marvelling at Steve’s ability to pace in such a small space as they sat in silence on the plane when a loud sound startled him. Bucky looked around from his position in the cockpit, meeting Tony’s eyes for some reason and nodding in the direction of the noise with an exasperated expression on his face. Tony shook off his surprise at seeing two whole emotions on the winter soldier’s face in the last hour and approached Steve cautiously, repeating the mantra he had been reciting since visiting the prison. _Barnes couldn’t control himself. You lose one family, you choose your next. Barnes couldn’t control himself._

The source of the noise? Captain America’s fist against the metal walls of the jet. It made Tony uncomfortable for a moment, the sight of the walking propaganda poster with tense shoulders and weary lines running across his face. He glanced around at Tony at the sound of footsteps, those warm blue eyes freezing over in blind anger.

“We’ll get them back.” And yes, Tony had turned into a broken record, or so it seemed. One mantra ringing around his head, another spewing bullshit from his mouth. Not that he wasn’t used to it, with the press conferences and expos, but he hated feeling useless to the point of repetition. And every repeated lie, every empty promise felt like another small victory for Ross. It was war, and wars were won on narrow margins, tiny increments, small victories. They couldn’t afford anymore losses.

Steve was still silent and so Tony glanced towards the other man in the plane. He was no use, nodding his head more forcefully towards the conflicted super soldier and widening his eyes in what Tony could only presume was super soldier speak for ‘man the hell up and talk about your feelings.’ Yeah, he wasn’t regretting his new forgiveness philosophy at all.

“Stev-”

“A kid, Tony!” Steve rounded on him, his hands splayed in front of him, a sure sign of pacifism to juxtapose his raised voice. Tony kept his distance nonetheless, replicating the action with his own palms raised above his head calmly. It took him a moment to catch on before the smiling face of Cassie Lang entered his memory. Whilst Steve had doubtlessly done his own research on Scott before agreeing to recruit him, Tony had been no exception when he’d first met the latest team member. And if that wasn’t coming back to haunt him, he wasn’t sure what was.

Cassie seemed like your average kid. Less than a decade of time in Earth, she’d not seen enough to weather her forehead into something more mountainous and her eyes seemed to gleam in every photo Tony had seen of her. And he could see Scott in her, more now he’d started looking, his guilty conscience throwing up signs of the other man in every way it could. She had his hair, a deep brown with the occasional curl, and the same look in her hazel irises. It was always the eyes, Tony had decided when he found himself wishing for children of his own, those orbs of concentrated hope that held him in such high esteem, as if he could do no wrong. They were far from right (a few miles out, in fact) but it always made him feel better to think that the wide population of babies still respected him somewhat.

“I didn’t earn his loyalty,” Steve continued to rant as Tony remained quiet, “I dragged him into a conflict he had no part in and now he’s paying the price and I’m fine. It’s one word, Tony! If he says Siberia, if he gives it all up, he can leave.” Tony sighed microscopically and stepped forwards, holding his hands up firmly as Steve rocked back into a stance more resembling a fighter.

“Ross is more interested in other things,” he said, not quite lying but voicing his assumptions with a hint of untruth, “We can’t speculate on something like that. Who knows if Siberia is the magical ‘get out of jail free’ card? All we know is that there’s three of us and a high security prison somewhere below the ocean.” Bucky tutted under his breath, clearly unimpressed with Stark’s comforting methods, although Steve seemed to deflate slightly, his arms dropping to his sides passively.

“And if we fail? If we get thrown in there with the rest of them?” Tony was unaccustomed to hearing the questions, the endless flood of uncertainty that racked Steve’s once certain, clear headed approach to things. Had the accords done this to him? Had turning his back on the initiative that had grounded him in the 21st century taken its toll?

“Then we’ll fight from the inside,” Tony spoke confidently, internally cursing his tone to remain steady and firm, “We’ll take the hit if we have to.”

“You don’t think Clint will have tried that?”

“Barton’s playing the long game,” Tony suggested uncertainly. “He’s keeping himself healthy so he can keep an eye on the rest of them. They need a leader, Steve.” Steve winced and turned away, running a hand through his unusually dishevelled hair.

“Because I’m not there to be one,” he finished for Tony, speaking in a dulled tone. Tony failed to suppress the sigh of frustration that escaped his mouth; this defeatist attitude was going to kill him.

“You’re going to have to better than that, Steve,” he replied eventually, ignoring Bucky’s flailing hands which probably meant ‘shut the hell up, Stark, what are you doing?” and continued to speak sharply. “Scott’s holding it together in there and that can’t be for nothing. He can’t be holding out for no one, it’s not fair.”

Steve’s shoulders tensed impossibly and Tony was against the wall before he could blink. He could feel Steve’s hands pressing into his shoulders, weak enough for him to push away although he remained perfectly still, eyes fixed on the other man’s, looking for a lick of fire.

“We are beyond fair,” Steve spoke lowly, dangerously. “The accords took ‘fair,’ ripped it into tiny shreds and glued them back together into that book of rules. They threw ‘fair’ in prison without a trial. Now, I’m getting them back and we’re doing it my way – we don’t have time to plan, or to play smart. I need fire power and a bit of luck, because god knows we’re owed some, okay?”

Tony’s eyes drifted to where Barnes had stood up from his seat, gaze calculating and assured. He nodded once at Tony, keeping his distance from the figure of Steve, trembling slightly with the effort of shouting, weary with exhaustion.

“You’ve got fire power,” he reassured him quietly, “And we’ll scrape up luck from somewhere, if we can.” His shoulders were released but he stayed up against the wall as Steve paced away to the opposite side of the plane. He slumped into one of the seats, raking a hand across his face and leaving the skin reddened and his hair rumpled.

“Thank you, Tony,” he murmured softly, looking up with a more familiar expression, “For everything.”

Tony held up his hands graciously, exhaling through pursed lips and glancing in Bucky’s direction once more. The winter soldier almost smiled before returning to the pilot’s seat with another approving nod.

“It wasn’t his fault,” Tony voiced his mantra for the first time. “But I lost my family once and I got so close to losing-” he waved his hands uncertainly, “-this.” Steve nodded understandingly, his eyes fleeting across Bucky’s back with a sense of familiarity and managing a weak smile.

“It’s time to get the team back,” he echoed softly, leaving one thing unsaid, communicated perfectly in a single glance.

_It was time to get the family back._

* * *

Clint had lost his idea of time somewhere along the line. He found himself failing to remember when, exactly, this had happened although he suspected there was a strong correlation with Scott. In place of his duty as team clock, he took up a more familiar role, sat between the door and the bed, hands clasped atop his knees in sentry mode.

He felt Sam’s eyes burning into the back of his head occasionally and constantly found himself brushing away the urge to glance back at Scott. He wasn’t going anywhere, he told himself despite the fact that it was the opposite of comforting, there was only one way out. The door seemed to shrink in the growing white room, getting further away until the distance seemed impossible on such an empty stomach. The four of them were beyond hunger, in that state between starvation and really wanting even a piece of stale bread. It was the golden hour, as Natasha had always called it on long stake outs that had ran past their intended completion date, one final moment when the stomach pangs relented for long enough that you might actually feel alright; it wouldn’t last, of course.

Clint wasn’t sure if he could stomach food, anyhow. Scott wouldn’t want any regardless, the man barely managing to adjust his position on the uncomfortable bed without wincing in muted pain. There was something distinctly unappetising about watching a friend get hurt from the sidelines and it wasn’t a position Clint liked to be in. He’d rather be the guy getting dragged out at all hours. He’d rather feel the pain first hand, not secondarily every time he caught sight of a bruise.

It was Sam’s low warning that snapped his head back up to the door some time later. The other man was sat on a corner of the bed, his hand close by to Scott’s hair but resisting the urge to brush it away from his eyes. The knowledge of his hand nearby seemed to calm Scott regardless although his murmured warning did nothing to help Scott’s rigid position. Wanda’s gaze fixed on the door as well, hands flexing irritatedly as she gave up trying to remove the gloves against the bedpost reluctantly.

Ross seemed to be saying something as the door opened, his mouth moved but Clint was a little preoccupied. It was one benefit to being deaf, he realised, as he could block out noise occasionally, even with his hearing aids. And as the general’s mouth moved, Clint’s feet moved of their own accord, pushing him upright as his stomach began to complain. So it was movement that signalled the end of the golden hour, he registered numbly, not that it was important.

He thought he saw his word flashing across Ross’s lips, the older man’s eyes lighting in faint amusement. Clint paid no attention to his taunting expression and couldn’t take notice of anything Sam might be telling him because his head was focused on one task, one last push.

* * *

“This is it,” Tony announced with a grimace, resting a splayed palm on the cool glass of the plane and gesturing to the visible turret of a mostly submerged ship in the stormy water below them. Bucky manoeuvred the jet cautiously, his eyes wandering to the cloaking button every so often to assure himself they were invisible to the prison.

“You know what to do,” Steve replied, slipping one arm into his shield determinedly. He managed a slightly lopsided smile because that was pushing it; the plan was rough at best and Tony really did not know what he was doing. But the events of late had got him in a kamikaze mood so he nodded confidently as if they had sat through a three hour Fury special before a mission and patched himself into the communications with the prison.

“Tony Stark to see General Ross,” he spoke into the comms unit, channeling a more self-assured Tony, “And make it fast. He’s going to want to hear this one.” The soldier on the other end was one of the younger ones, quick to respond to a commanding tone and even quicker when the voice was that of a billionaire. Influence opened doors far too easily.

Their plane touched down in the hangar and Bucky’s hand rested on the door controls for a second, hesitating as he caught Steve’s eye.

“How do we play this one?”

“Knock them out,” Steve replied shortly, “Try not to kill anyone, Buck.” His friend smirked slightly and nodded in understanding.

“The same goes for you, Tony,” Steve turned pointedly. Tony almost argued back but snapped his mouth shut and stood at the base of the ramp as Bucky began to open it. Steve joined him, the blue cowl covering his matted hair.

“If you can help it,” he whispered under his breath and Tony flashed him a mocking look in surprise.

“Well, isn’t this a turn around,” he commented ironically, “Captain ‘kill no one but Nazis’ America has been corrupted. Who is it now? Steve ‘we will have revenge’ Rogers?” Steve elbowed his arm with an embarrassed smile before setting his mouth in a hard line. Tony’s faceplate came down to cover his head and he stood in front of a row of surprised soldiers.

“Like I said,” he addressed the group of uncertain recruits, “Ross might want to hear this one.”

* * *

“At least you tried,” Sam said resignedly, patting at Clint’s bleeding forehead with a discarded pillowcase. The latter waved his hand away politely and pressed the fabric to the narrow cut that stretched back across his hair line with a hiss of pain. Making acquaintance with the floor had been an unpleasant experience to say the least, never mind having to watch Scott be dragged away from such a helpless vantage point.

“Too late,” he replied eventually, huffing out another breath and leaning his head against the wall with a frustrated groan. “It’s like Ross said, now or never.”

“If Scott doesn’t give them something-” Wanda began reluctantly.

“He’s dead,” Clint finished numbly, shutting his eyes against the blinding white of the room, “We should have done something else. Come up with a plan or something.” Sam’s sighs of frustration joined his own and, as Clint opened his eyes, he saw the other man rubbing across his knuckles, still split from the last time he punched the wall. He seemed to exercise more self control this time, although from the look in his eyes, Sam was more resigned than anything else. The fight was lost.

The main door hissed again and Wanda rubbed her hands against the wall one last time with a wall of frustration, sparks of red actually glimmering through the dark fabric. Her eyes were almost black, flecked with red at the edges as she struggled with the constraints. Sam didn’t look up from the small circles he traced with his fingers across his palms, his posture slumped and open. Clint felt very much the same, just waiting to be hauled up from the floor by another one of those failed S.H.I.E.L.D recruits and beaten into submission.

“Clint,” a familiar voice almost stirred Clint from his seat against the wall. He wanted to tell himself it was a phantom sound, some sick trick that his nauseated mind was playing on him in a final attempt to deal him the worst hand possible. For a minute he was tempted to remain hopeless but the final tug of a single maybe made him look up.

“Cap,” the name died in his throat as he sat up straight. A trick of the light surely, every one of his senses ganging up on him in a final, cruel mirage. Sam looked up in concern, maybe expecting to see a hallucinating Clint in front of him, but instead stood up from the bed and rested one hand on the glass.

“Steve?”

“Sam,” Steve nodded back, guilt flooding his face, “Tony’s just breaking into the main computer system and then the door will be opened.” His eyes darted around the room, stomach sinking as he counted three people with every searching glance. He tried to ignore Sam’s bristling figure at the mention of Tony’s name and the way Wanda’s eyes flashed angrily from the other corner of the cell.

“Scott?” he asked hesitantly as if he didn’t want to know the answer. Clint let his head drop back between his knees and he waved to Sam, hoping to avoid the question altogether.

“Ross,” Sam murmured, sliding onto the floor with a shellshocked expression once more, “Took him again. We never knew where they were going. But he said-”

The door clicked open and Steve entered quickly, kneeling on one knee in front of Sam.

“He said what?”

“Now or never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have another chapter almost ready for this fic which should be coming tomorrow so the cliffhanger isn’t too evil :)
> 
> Thank you for your continued nice reviews, it’s great to see that some people are still only just seeing this and I always love to hear from the same people in every chapter as well (you know who you are <3 )


	7. Home

Steve separated from Clint at another crossroads. The other man nodded solemnly, his hands agitatedly fiddling with the hem of the stiff blue prison uniform, anxious without a bow to hold. Steve ran a hand through his hair to calm his own restless fingers, setting off down the narrow hallway with purpose.

He was about to give up on the corridor that seemed to contain no doors when a single opening, concealing a darkened room revealed itself to him around a bend. Steve placed his feet silently, swiftly moving down to the door, flattening himself at the wall and glancing sideways into the gloom.

His eyes were drawn to a shape on the floor, curled in on itself impossibly, the gentle shudders shaking its form the only signs of life. Ross stood to one side, half of his face obscured by the shadows of the room’s corners; he watched another man, a soldier judging from his uniform, stand over the mass on the floor. Scott, Steve had to remind himself, swallowing a lump that grew in his throat. He thought of Bucky for a moment, and then of Sam, Clint and Wanda. They wouldn’t be behind him, they wouldn’t have his back unless he turned around and caught their attention. He didn’t want to enlist Tony, the man had been angry enough when he left him in the control room. And so, as always, there were two options – the level headed leader and Steve Rogers, reckless fool.

The captain didn’t hesitate. He threw himself into the room, throwing the scratched and dented shield into the darkness in front of him. The flying disc launched itself at the uniformed soldier, taking him by surprise as he stumbled back from the impact. Ross’s smirk turned to a sneer but Steve ignored him, never relenting as he continued to push the soldier up against the back wall of the room. He wanted to shout, to somehow exact revenge for the treatment of his team, but the heated words fell short in favour of a frustrated cry. He held his readily curled fist back, trying to rein in the fire that lit his eyes; the baby blue of America’s hero quelled by the flames of a worn soldier. Steve couldn’t play these games anymore; Scott was evidence of that. That it wasn’t a game. That every move had a consequence he couldn’t predict. That the era of the heroes of New York was over.

He released the pressure from the soldier’s neck, allowing him to breathe freely, gasping in the stale air of the chilly room. The man looked at Steve with unfiltered surprise, seeing only rage and guilty reluctance.

“You should count yourself lucky that I got to you before a particularly angry man with a suit full of highly charged missiles,” he growled under his breath, throwing a hand towards the doorway that made the man flinch, “You step out of that door and I can’t promise you won’t be on the receiving end of an arrow, or faced by several other extremely pissed off Avengers. But you should be glad that I’m giving you the chance to run, because your life really depends on it.” The soldier nodded, fleeing towards the lighter corridor in relief.

By the time Steve had turned around, Ross had disappeared and the captain would have run to the door in anger if Scott hadn’t caught his eye. He dropped to his knees behind the huddled body, hands hovering above the barely recognisable man. Scott shivered, his eyes tightly closed and breathing shallow and wheezing. His shirt, ripped and flung to one corner, exposed the cuts that littered his arms, some scabbing as others bled freely. It was then that Steve realised his trousers were slowly dampening from a pool of blood on the floor. He inhaled sharply through his nose instinctively at the sensation, regretting it as a metallic odour filled his senses, causing bile to rise in his throat.

“Scott…” He trailed off, his voice ragged and cracking. He allowed the guilt to consume him for a minute, mourning the state of a man who had idolised him, leaving everything to join his side of the fight after just hearing his name. They’d only ever fought once together but he’d risked everything to cause a distraction and then refused to give up a single location to the dangerous people who had left him so vulnerable. It was a debt that would remain outstanding for the remainder of Steve’s life.

Scott mumbled incoherently under his breath, a muted sound of pain that brought Steve back to the situation in front of him. He forced himself to categorise the injuries in front of him, concerned about the deeper slashes across his stomach and arms, noticing bruises that slowly faded above Scott’s hairline. He had seen Scott’s trousers, slightly pulled down and attempted to push away the thoughts that surfaced in the back of his mind. Every time he glanced away from the man’s pained expression, he remembered the single word of warning whispered under Clint’s breath as they regrouped in the hangar that had sent Tony into an unbridled rage, leaving Steve’s blood boiling.

He finally sucked in a last deep breath and tentatively rested a hand on a bare patch of skin on Scott’s shoulder. Scott, despite his closed eyes and seeming inability to move, dragged himself across the floor, away from the touch with a minute cry of defiance. A cut along his spine splintered, reopening in a trail of blood.

“Scott, Scott, it’s alright,” Steve murmured softly, gracefully getting to his feet and positioning himself in sight of Scott. The dilated brown irises slowly flickered to his face and a flash of recognition sent a relieved tremble through Scott. His eyes closed briefly and he bit his lip before staring back up at Steve. There was a tiny light in his pupils, a glimmer of hope.

“It’s only me,” Steve continued to whisper, “No one else is going to hurt you.” Scott seemed to brace himself before attempting to shift his body, almost as if he was embarrassed by their situation before pausing with a small cry of agony. Steve winced sympathetically and reached out as if to reassure him, pausing above Scott’s shoulder questioningly. He nodded, although Steve couldn’t miss the flinch that crossed his clenched face as his calloused hand rested lightly on the untouched skin. 

“Cap,” Scott finally mustered a single word, almost lost in the whispered breath he expelled from pursed lips, “I – I-” Steve shushed him softly as he struggled to form a sentence and snapped his eyes shut in frustration.

“Don’t say too much,” he told him quietly, “Save your voice.” Scott let his head roll against the floor again in resignation but kept his eyes focused steadily on Steve’s concerned face.

“Steve-” Scott sounded insistent but trailed off again, closing his eyes tightly with a wince that seemed to stay fixed across his expression. Steve stilled for a moment, knowing that Scott had never called him by his first name; he was someone else who knew him only as Captain ‘call me Steve’ America. Come to think of it, Scott had spent much of his time on the team as Lang, Mr. Lang or Ant-man. And that had to mean something – it did nothing but increase Steve’s guilt and later, his concern.

“..Think I’m going to die,” Scott said suddenly, his words clear as if he had formulated the sentence some time ago. Steve leant over to the corner of the room to retrieve the torn shirt, ignoring the statement determinedly and pressing the material against Scott’s stomach. The latter stuttered on a breath and his shoulders began to shudder violently. So that was the caveat; a personal declaration, too intimate to tell Captain America, but Steve? He’d know what to do.

“I have to clot the blood,” Steve apologised as Scott writhed on the floor uncomfortably, “Just try to stay with me, Scott.” The captain glanced to the doorway, wondering if anyone was coming to look for him. He considered shouting, but the way the sounds echoed down the underwater corridors was sure to set Scott’s nerves on edge.

“We need to get you to the plane,” he continued, trying to spot any last injuries he hadn’t noticed already. Scott nodded vaguely, his eyes slipping closed more and more frequently. “I’m going to try and lift you up, okay?”

“I can w-walk,” Scott lied vacantly and Steve almost allowed himself a laugh.

“No, you’ve done enough,” he murmured, feeling the sheen across Scott’s forehead with the back of his hand. Shock? Probably. From the blood loss? Almost definitely. He brushed a few strands of damp hair away from Scott’s eyes and placed one hand under his head, the other pushing Scott’s trousers back over his protruding hip bones swiftly to conceal the taunting pattern of bruises that disappeared beneath the waistband, and hooking under his curled legs.

“Ready?” Steve checked one last time as Scott hummed softly in agreement, his eyes closed for the longest they had been. Steve knew he was starting to slip into unconsciousness and tried not to drown in the wave of anxiety that threatened to sweep him off his feet.

He stood up gingerly, adjusting his grip on Scott as the other man’s head fell limply against his chest, painting Steve’s shirt red. Steve swept the room with his eyes once and then checked that the material was still covering the worst of the injuries. He noticed how light Scott was as he set off down the bright corridor, brown eyes watching him, squinting slightly in the harsh white. The ribs protruding through the cuts swam before Steve’s vision before he shook his head and forced himself to focus.

“Cap?” Scott’s words were a little slurred and his eyelids slipped closed again as he spoke, “Cassie needs to know – I’m s-sorry, and I l-l-love her.” Steve shook his head despite the fact that Scott couldn’t see him and felt desperate tears form in his eyes.

“You can tell her yourself,” he promised in a choked tone, “Keep fighting it, just a few more minutes, Scott. I promise.” 

“Steve!” A shout from up ahead caused hope to swell in Steve’s chest. Scott flinched as the sound echoed past them and down the remainder of the corridor. The captain sped up slightly, muttering reassurances under his breath as Scott paled further.

“It’s just the others, Scott.” Scott’s trembling slowed slightly.

“They’re all okay.” Scott began to breathe more evenly, although the sound was beginning to fade.

“You’ll be back with Cassie soon,” Steve whispered under his breath.

“We’re going to go home.” The head against Steve’s chest went limp and Scott’s chest barely rose with every passing second. Against his better judgement, Steve broke into a light jog, careful to keep his arms still as he ran towards the sound of his name reverberating through the pipes that lined each wall.

Finally, he caught sight of Clint, eyes narrowed as he held a loaded bow aimed at Steve’s forehead, the string taut against steely fingers. The arrow clattered to the floor when he caught sight of the two of them and he threw his bow to one side, meeting them halfway down the corridor.

“Scott?” he asked urgently, the worry of being separated from the hurt man for so long present in every line of concern that crossed his face. Steve could see it in his eyes; Clint thought he was dead.

“Not good,” Steve replied almost silently, sighing in relief as the familiar sight of the hangar greeted them around the corner. Clint kept up with him at his side, stopping to retrieve his bow and supporting Scott’s trailing arm with a gentle hand.

“Cap?” Tony was stood at the side of the quinjet and he paled at the sight of his bloodied shirt and the body in his arms. The anger melted from his eyes and he picked up the first aid kit from the back of the plane rapidly, gesturing to the floor insistently. Steve’s eyes were laser focused on Scott’s figure, so concentrated in fact that he missed Sam’s angered glare in Tony’s direction, and his restless feet, almost lunging but held back by Clint, who appeared quickly at his side.

“We can’t leave him like this,” he told Steve firmly, “We need to patch him up before we take off.” Steve nodded numbly, lying Scott down carefully. He reached up automatically to smooth his ruffled hair again, leaving a trail of blood through his fringe.

“Okay, right. Bandages on his stomach,” Tony categorised shakily, his eyes drawn to Steve’s blood soaked uniform with a heart stopping gulp. “Wilson, I need your help with this.” 

Sam was shaking, bouncing agitatedly on his heels. He fired another glare at Tony for a second before Clint rested a hand on his arm in warning and, although he’d probably hate to admit it, in comfort.

“He didn’t know this was happening,” he whispered, so that only Sam could hear him, “Don’t blame him. Scott needs your help.” Sam nodded eventually, his eyes never leaving the harsh furrows across Scott’s brow as he crossed the small hangar.

“You’re going to be alright Tic-Tac. You have to be,” he murmured under his breath, setting to work quickly, bandaging up Scott’s arms with practiced hands, fingers lingering at his quivering shoulders for a second, resting against the unbroken skin.

“Where else?” Tony asked Steve softly, finishing a roll of bandages across Scott’s stomach. Steve had stayed at a distance, his eyes unmoving from Scott’s face as Clint stepped to one side to join Wanda, his arm slipping over her shoulder in comfort as she watched on, her face in turmoil. Steve’s view of Scott was blocked insistently by Tony, whose searching brown eyes had seen something in his look, something in the way he stood.

“I – he – there’s bruising, lower down,” Steve stuttered, his face flushing with anger, “I think his legs were covered in cuts too.” Tony hesitated at the waistband of Scott’s trousers, as if he was waiting for someone to take over.

“I’ll do it,” Sam muttered, meeting Tony’s conflicted eyes, “It’s just bandaging, right?” Tony nodded mutely, handing him the roll of white material and sitting back on his heels. His gaze landed on Steve again and he stepped away to try and give Scott the privacy he deserved.

“Stop blaming yourself,” he stood between Steve and Scott, capturing the captain’s attention forcefully. “He made a choice, Cap, and it saved both of us.”

“He has a kid,” Steve replied steadily although his eyes still blazed slightly, “Ross knew that and he still let them do this. He was watching, Tony. He was going to watch that man do _things_ to him and then kill him.” Tony swallowed a lump in his throat and nodded, unsure of how to respond.

“And he was so scared before he knew it was me,” Steve continued abruptly, “He dragged himself across the floor to get away from me. What must they have done to him to make him act like that? What did he endure to protect me and Bucky?”

“He can get better,” Tony assured Steve tentatively, “We just need to get him back on his feet first, and then we can work on everything else. I know we’ve had our differences, but I need you to trust me: this isn’t anyone’s fault except for Ross and the government. I swear I would never have signed the accords if I knew this was part of the punishment for breaking them.”

“What if he isn’t alright?” Steve had turned away, his voice far lower than Tony had ever heard it, conflict hiding a sudden surge of anger.

“He’s one of us now,” Tony insisted softly, flickers of guilt for never trying to know him properly relighting in the pit of his stomach, “You were frozen in a block of ice for years; and you’re alright. I flew through a hole in the sky - it took time but I’m doing fine. Banner lives with a ticking time bomb in his brain but he can live with it and he does.” Steve turned around slowly, a shadow of a mask disintegrating at the edges of his face.

“It might be a bleak way of thinking about things, but there’s always a worse situation,” Tony continued with a glance back at Scott, lowering his voice further, “There will be a time when we face something bigger than this, bigger than us, and no matter how significant it seems now, stuff like this will pale in comparison.”

“Okay,” Sam called shakily, returning Steve and Tony’s attention back to Scott. They moved to lift his body carefully into the plane as Sam stepped away with a heavy exhalation. As Scott was lain across several seats, they both heard Sam’s fists connect with the wall opposite the plane, followed by Clint’s firm but soft call and Bucky’s tentative agreement.

“Sam? Come on, buddy. We’re going to make everything right again,” Clint approached Sam, reaching a hand up to his shoulder, “And if I ever see Ross again, he’ll be dead before he knows it’s me.”

“Not if I beat you to it,” Bucky’s voice replied lowly. Steve could hear it in the few words that reached him; the guilt and the turmoil, that his friend had a lifetime’s worth of already, stacking up ever higher.

Steve had returned to the front of the jet, a resolute line carved across his jaw, setting his profile in a harsh light. Tony rested one hand on the ceiling of the plane, leaning his head into the cockpit hesitantly.

“Look, I don’t say this all that often because, well, to be honest I’m too full of my own self importance to admit it,” he noticed Steve’s attention shift towards him, “I messed up, Cap, I got lazy because I wanted so badly to believe something that would mean I could put everything behind me. So, what I’m trying to say is, I’m, you know-”

“Yeah, I know,” Steve smiled, almost reluctantly for a fleeting moment, “I am too.” 

Tony turned away, seemingly satisfied, but then stopped, half frozen between turning away and facing Steve. Finally, he shook his head to himself, closing his eyes for a second to psych himself up and kept his gaze focused on the floor; some things had to be said, not implied.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry as well,” Steve replied, his own eyes flickering over to Tony’s sheepish form before returning to the plane’s controls, his fingers flying over switches and turning on the engines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had this chapter written for so long, it’s nice to finally get it published!
> 
> It was actually one of the first sections of this I wrote after the initial idea and I’ve been itching to get to it ever since. We are very much into the comfort of this hurt/comfort fic now although there will still be a little more hurt (and maybe a lot if it I take it in one direction ;) ). Regardless, I have two potential endings, a longer one and a shorter one so if anyone has a preference let me know :)


	8. Losing

There are many types of silence. Those that carry whispers of unspoken conversation. Those that are punctuated with a cough or a polite smile. And then there are hospital silences; the jarring dissonance of electrocardiographs echoing endlessly down sterile corridors. A place without feeling for those who feel worse than most.

* * *

Bucky stood to one side in the crowded room, his eyes permanently trained on Tony’s back as he glanced up with his head tilted towards the floor. There was something unshakeable, even without the influence of the mind control, about the instincts to watch a threat. And whilst he knew there was no threat anymore, the silence ate away at the restless insistence of his mind, only allowing the loud thoughts that were usually subdued to rear their heads.

Despite the unending itch that he should stay focused, Bucky occasionally allowed himself a glance in Steve’s direction. It was never comforting, as he hoped it might be, and the sight of the deep lines running across his friend’s face did nothing to settle the pool of unease welling in his stomach, bur there was a familiarity in Steve that Bucky found nowhere else; the old days, when most of the equipment that populated the room didn’t even exist. And somehow it felt easier then. Even with the war and the constant worry that Steve had got himself into trouble again. Things had changed and Bucky couldn’t help but feel like his job was changing, that who he once was didn’t match who he needed to be. And he was the one missing the memo.

* * *

Clint had made it home for every birth. He’d had close calls and blissful days waiting for a late one; false alarms and missed flights. 

Cooper had been the easiest. Fury had given him a week to settle into the farmhouse, which meant more than rearranging the furniture to Clint. It was scouting time; those necessary hours climbing in the rafters, looking for bugs because he was paranoid like that, painting the nursery when he was satisfied. It was a new feeling, safety, but quickly overtaken by parenthood. And he’d been there to feel uncomfortable as the tiny baby that was half him was taken away to be dressed.

Lila had been a closer call. Coulson had pulled some strings to get him extracted from a mission that was taking them for a stroll down every dead end of an endless maze. It hadn’t been a clean operation, rather one of those ‘run for the chopper as fast as you can’ FUBAR missions that came with the customary horizontal rain and pitch black darkness. The helicopter had taken a detour somewhere along the way, landing Clint with a bit of explaining to do and a front seat to the second birth. Coulson took the slap on the wrist for extending his mission report deadline by a week or so but the baby pictures that landed in his email inbox seemed to make up for it.

Nathaniel hadn’t been a walk in the park either. Clint was fresh from the Sokovia battle when the third's due date passed by uneventful. A few false alarms later, he’d rocked up late but with a smile to make up for it. And he could have stayed behind to help clean up, could have been there a couple of days late and made up for it by taking a couple of extra night shifts. But he hadn’t.

He’d been there, in the sterile environment that had always felt more hostile than clean. He supposed it was the association – hurt on a mission equalled hospital, therefore pain equalled hospital. Pain, stress, fatigue, et. cetera. It was a whole bag of emotions he liked to avoid.

Even the poking and prodding he’d endured this time hadn’t bothered him though. Blood tests he would usually object to, bandaged knuckles that would heal themselves after any ordinary day: he’d sat through the lot of it, almost asking for the tests to come faster. And it wasn’t even that he wanted to see Scott, although he really did, in the same way he’d always got hung up about them taking the babies away to get weighed. But honestly, and with selfishness at the forefront, Clint hated the white and the quiet. It was too much like the cell, too much like the sleepless nights. And whilst the bags under his eyes were screaming for a moment’s respite, he’d still brushed off every attempt to put him in a bed. No, he needed people, he needed a glimpse of Wanda and Sam out of the Raft and away from danger. He needed Scott sleeping peacefully and uninterrupted. But, selfishly and above all else, he craved their company. And maybe retirement had made him soft but Clint was fine with that. He wanted companionable quiet, not sterile silence.

And that search led him to the windowsill of the crowded room, resting his head on the cool glass, body aching for a bed and a hot water bottle as his mind kept itself active. And Clint was used to the war that happened inside him, so used to it that he could block out the pull of both sides and set his face in a perfectly neutral expression. There would be time for sleep eventually, when the silence came to an end.

* * *

Sam didn’t just hate hospitals, he hated the sounds and the sympathetic not quite smiles. He hated the food because, man, the food was never good. And he hated the fact that everything was white on principle because it’s a hospital. The room felt empty and dangerously lifeless with the absence of colour.

It made Scott’s complexion look even paler and even less skin-like. It set the hairs on Sam’s arms on end as the bruises around Scott’s eyes seemed to darken when surrounded by the white. Purple and blue, mottled across fragile ceramics; devoid of a hint of yellow or green, devoid of the signs of healing.

Sam had been sat in the uncomfortable chair (and yes, he hated them too) at Scott’s beside for the longest. He’d watched the rest of them trail in one after the other, clutching at the wooden hand rests with white knuckles at the sight of Tony but exhaling calmly at the sight of Clint’s warning expression. Whatever Stark had said to Steve seemed to have set the latter’s mind at rest, Sam tried to tell himself. And what was good enough for Cap would do for Sam. That, coupled with the reassuring gaze of Bucky removed all further distractions; Sam would watch patiently until Scott broke free from the black and white of the hospital. He’d look out for the smallest signs of life among the lifeless.

* * *

Wanda stared at the wall between her and Scott’s room with unfiltered frustration. She ignored the attempts of the doctors to remove the gloves, unmoving as they cut and pulled at the unrelenting material. The walls were thick and emotionless but, with the flickers of red she could pull into her eyes, she could just feel a trace of Scott from beyond the breezeblocks. Amongst the tension and unease that shrouded the neighbouring room, Wanda clung to the weak signal of calm and sleep.

Scott was, for the moment, at ease. And that was enough to keep her from ripping her hands away and channelling every ethereal strand of red light into the gloves to destroy them. She would be patient, as would Scott, and nothing, not even the slow infiltration of stress into the calm, would move her.

* * *

It was calming. Cassie liked the steady torrent of water that cascaded over the rock wall. The waterfall was surrounded by a tranquil forest, peppered with every shade of green; evergreen, lime, turquoise. The leaves let a thin stream of light dance across Scott’s skin and he followed it through the paper thin filter and across to the gleaming stones. It left a trail of dispersed light, casting a rainbow of colour rippling through the lagoon and onto Cassie’s skin. 

Scott closed his eyes on the sunlight and let it heat the skin of his eyelids, opening his ears onto a soundscape of the forest. Birds sung in the trees as leaves rustled with a warm summer breeze. Cassie giggled as the water hit the bare skin of her arms and splashed the cavern walls with seemingly endless enthusiasm.

But then she was gone.

The light was replaced with a cold darkness. Scott found himself less unsettled than he’d expected. He’d done dark and scary before, he reasoned silently with himself, he’d done creepy forest in a hundred childhood nightmares. And so it wasn’t the sinister shadows of twisting tree branches that concerned him, nor was it the resounding cracks of broken twigs that reverberated around the emptiness of the clearing. But that voice. It echoed through his ears even when he covered them. It was inside of him, not in the forest and not in the dream.

Scott had Ross stuck inside his head but it wasn’t the general who felt like a prisoner. The hunter was the hunted and Scott couldn’t get it out of his head.

* * *

Steve had chosen the furthest corner. He liked having his back covered by the wall; it was reliable, it couldn’t let him down. And he liked only having one direction to look in because he though if he started looking behind him, he’d never find a reason to turn around and face the present.

He’d lost everything once or twice. 

He got muscles and lost his asthma. That counted as losing himself, in his books. One Steve Rogers died that day and another was born. Not a soldier, but a good man. Then he slept for a generation and lost himself all over again, awaking as the same good man in a world where good was no longer what it used to be. Steve became a ‘modern man' and said goodbye to the 1940s.

He lost his mum that day she never opened her eyes. And again when he stood at her funeral and watched the grave get filled in. He lost sight of the coffin amongst the dirt as Bucky placed a hand on his back to steady him and he never quite got that view back. For all the conversations he had with a gravestone, Steve always felt like he was talking to a lump of rock above his mother, and not the woman herself.

He lost his best friend on that train. He clung to the side of the locomotive with his fingertips cutting into peeling metal sheet and wept for a friend he would never see again. And then the mask of the Winter Soldier fell to the ground and a stranger became an old companion. Of course, Steve lost him after being saved from drowning but he always knew Bucky would be back.

And then there was Tony. Steve almost lost him a couple of times. The gleam of anger that sparked their first row, was always ignited and ready. He could have lost him over the accords, he could have lost him if they’d reached the lower floor of the Siberian bunker. But he was still there, watching him with a calculated gaze, his eyes trying to tell Steve to stop blaming himself.

It was hard. When you’re the only constant factor in a series of events; it’s hard to ignore the correlation. Steve lost people. Steve lost things. Steve lost Scott.

And that conclusion unsettled Steve more than he wanted it to. And it was this feeling that nagged the back of his brain that he couldn’t ignore. There was an undeniable charm to Scott’s unrelenting awkwardness. He was brave too, leaving Steve with an unpayable debt and a whole set of emotions to deal with. And was it fate that the man who lost everything was drawn naturally to the losing man? Because if it was, fate was a cruel mastermind.

* * *

Scott’s senses were flooded too quickly. The forest fell away in favour of bright light and the hum of machinery felt more like a grating screech in contrast to the whispering wind. The voice had left too, one small positive, although the stream of negativity seemed to outweigh it too quickly to process.

There was a voice and then several, telling him something but he couldn’t tell what they were saying. And then he was still once more.

* * *

“Take it slowly, Tic-Tac,” Sam’s tired voice cut through the film of sleep that had settled across the room. He was leant forward in his seat with gentle focus, one hand hovering above Scott’s writhing arm. Scott mumbled indistinctly, throwing one hand across his arm protectively and scratching at the IV port at his wrist.

“Careful, Scott,” Clint stood up from the windowsill and reached the bed in a single stride, prying Scott’s fingers away gingerly. “It’s helping you.”

Scott didn’t seem to hear, his squinting eyes snapping shut instinctively as he felt Clint’s callused fingers brush his own and his head squirmed away across the pillow. Clint removed his hand as if he had been burned and stepped backwards uncertainly.

Steve took one look at his team, broken, fragmented, _lost_ , and left the room, two pairs of eyes on his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay - a series of technical difficulties has left me with only my phone to upload from. I wrote this on my phone and I haven't really proof read it so there may be mistakes, please bare with me!
> 
> I will be back to the usual frequency and length of uploads in a couple of weeks but until then I will try and manage an update whenever I can bare the frustration of predictive text on a small keyboard :D


	9. Stay

“Give us a minute, would you?” Steve heard from behind him. In a moment of blindness he’d somehow found the floor to ceiling window at the end of the corridor complete with taunting view of the cheerful Wakandan sunrise. He was grateful of course, for the message from the king himself that had reached the jet shortly after take-off and for the offer of a parley of sorts. But the sun didn’t feel right; the pathetic fallacy was all too contrasting.

The voice behind him were far from subtle although it was difficult to be subtle when faced with a five metre stretch of corridor. Tony and Bucky, united in both a friendship with Steve and a distrust of each other – they were so similar, Steve imagined they could be good friends if they tried.

“Give you a minute?” Bucky snorted under his breath, clearly unimpressed, “This isn’t one of those TV gameshows everyone seems addicted to nowadays, Stark.”

“I don’t want to know when you found time to develop an interest in modern television, Barnes,” it was Tony’s turn to snort, “I just want to talk to Steve.”

“Fine,” Bucky bit back with a resigned sigh, “I would like to remind you that I haven’t been a brainwashed killer for some time now, a fact that you seemed to have remembered until five minutes ago.” If Tony had a response, Bucky clearly wasn’t in the mood to hear it because Steve heard a door close down the hallway and footsteps approaching him.

“You’ve got to snap out of it, Cap,” Tony stopped a couple of steps behind Steve, his tone offering a usual lack of intent as he tried to sound firm. Steve’s eyes slipped closed and he leant a hand against the window to steady himself.

“Not now, Tony,” he murmured quietly, tilting his head slightly away from the other man and resting his other palm on the glass.

“So, when?” Tony replied, albeit a little harshly. Steve’s chest lifted and fell heavily and he pressed into the glass of the window in frustration.

“Not now,” he repeated, spacing the words far apart and gritting his teeth. It wasn’t the time to get angry; that could come later when the dust had settled. It was best done in private, when raised voices could be substituted for diplomacy. But Tony was insistent.

“Just admit that you’re blaming yourself because it’s the only thing keeping you here and you can’t let yourself lose him,” Stark replied lowly, his voice quieter in an attempt to sound encouraging. Steve clenched his fists to his sides and turned around on the spot. He ignored Tony’s hands, held open passively in front of him, and stepped forwards, holding the other man against the wall firmly but without trying to hurt him. He glared down at Tony, meeting his unwavering gaze with such intensity that he was surprised Tony held his eye contact so calmly.

“You don’t get to talk to me about loss,” Steve whispered harshly, swallowing any emotion and setting his eyes coldly, “I have lost. More than you could imagine: people, places, decades. I lost a lifetime; and now I’m losing this one as well.”

“Say it,” Tony said again, eyebrows raised slightly in silent challenge. Steve shook his head, increasing the pressure on Tony’s shoulders fractionally.

“Have you stopped to think for a second, Stark? Considered what being a leader really means? Because to me, it’s an ability to take the blame for your team’s failures instead of brushing everything under the carpet.” Tony did not blink, watching Steve as his voice raised slowly. “It’s being able to put them first, to sacrifice yourself ahead of them. I didn’t do that for Scott – he gave up his freedom for me. That doesn’t sound like a fair trade.”

“Life’s not a fair trade,” Tony interrupted suddenly, brown eyes burning a shade darker, “And don’t try to tell me what a sacrifice is. I’m never going to know what was down at the bottom of that bunker; I might never find out what was so bad that it would tear us to pieces. I sacrificed that for this team, I went against the law, _for this team._ ”

“And your own team?” Steve prompted bitterly, “When are you going back to them? How much of this are you planning to keep secret? Rhodes is in hospital – how can you be happy leaving him there?” To Tony’s credit, his gaze barely faltered. For a moment, his eyes flickered, anger melting away to something raw and unfiltered before the shields raised once more.

“If I could face it, I’d be there,” he replied levelly, holding Steve’s eyes with his own as if he was still angry and fuming, “But I’m not going to watch you do the same to Scott. You feel guilty, so do I. But I didn’t shoot my best friend out of the sky, just how you didn’t put Scott in a prison cell.” Steve eased up slightly but his jaw was still clenched, hands flexing as they rested on Tony’s shoulders.

“Why did you let that man destroy the bunker?”

“It was our only choice,” Tony replied, barely louder than a whisper, “Besides, I don’t think I want to know what was down there. His plan, all of it, was designed to pull us apart. He’d already framed Barnes for a crime he didn’t commit. Who’s to say he wasn’t going to try the same trick? And if it wasn’t a trick, I definitely don’t want to know what your friend has done to innocent people, brainwashed or not.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Steve voiced the mantra that coursed through his veins every time he felt wary in his friend’s presence, “He didn’t do those things. It was the people who got inside his head, okay?” The door opened at the end of the hallway and Clint stepped out, initially glancing around the door but then closing it entirely to keep the noise from reaching the room.

“Everything alright?” he asked calmly, although his hands were shaky with exhaustion and his hair mussed and unclean. Steve pulled his hands away, holding them up in reluctant surrender and backing away from Tony.

“You need to admit it to yourself before you step back in there,” Tony warned, free from Steve’s grip, “He doesn’t need lying to right now, none of them do.” He stepped past Clint, noticeably giving him space in the narrow corridor and returned to the cramped hospital room.

“I feel it too,” Clint joined Steve at the window, offering a tired, dull smile of sympathy. “I keep replaying it all as if this whole mess was a move I did in training that I could review and make a better attempt at tomorrow. Hell, if this starts all over again tomorrow, I think I’d get close to giving it all up.”

Steve remained silent, resting his back against the wall that Tony no longer occupied with a sigh and glancing at Clint critically.

“There was nothing you could have done,” he reminded him carefully, believing the sentiment wholeheartedly when directing it towards the other man, but unable to turn it on himself. “I think Scott appreciated the support more than anything else.”

“But I was there,” Clint replied persistently, “And I’ve been there before. That’s the point, Steve: Scott never got trained for this. I didn’t; not really, but S.H.I.E.L.D. training has its benefits. I know how to get through an interrogation but I didn’t teach him. I know how to rile up guards and make them go for me, but I didn’t do that.” Steve joined him at the window again, watching the man with a second family hidden in a farmhouse somewhere, the man who could be convinced to leave all of that and the peace of retirement behind based on a simple phone call. So much for domestic bliss.

* * *

It had been a quiet day on the farm. In fact, every day was quiet on the farm so really, it had been a typical day in a series of typical days. Clint had thought his day job had taught him everything he needed to know about himself but was growing more surprised by the day as retirement threw up some interesting developments.

Revelation one came at 9 o’clock in the morning on the second Saturday of retirement. He’d just about got past the stage of scratching every day he survived into a tally on the wall, the melodrama of ‘being safe' wearing off, albeit slowly. It was a new feeling, not having to look over his shoulder every five minutes and even more peculiar not having a partner to watch out for. Or a team, in fact, and he was missing that team more than he had expected.

Anyhow, the revelation came as he lay in bed, groggily coming to the realisation that he had never got up for those morning exercises. And hey, the sun was up before Barton, another novelty. It was his wife’s doing, he realised rapidly, noticing his alarm clock had mysteriously taken a walk and that the curtains were still closed.

And so, Clint Barton, early bird, realised that he could stomach a lie in, every so often.

The learning curves came thick and fast over the next month. Some were more depressing than others (that definitely was a grey hair, to his horror) but others, like how Lila had a natural flair for archery under his tutelage, gave Clint some hope for the coming years.

He’d probably just about settled into retirement when the phone call came. Call it a spy’s instinct, or else paranoia, but Clint had kept a small flip phone on him at all times since moving home. He had a small number of contacts; bare essentials to assure him everything was okay. Because if he wasn’t getting a phone call from Natasha, Fury, Hill or any of the avengers, Clint was happy to say the world was doing just fine without Hawkeye.

He didn’t like to admit how his shoulders tensed at the unfamiliar ringtone coming from his shirt pocket. There was an embarrassing course of adrenaline that came with the sight of Steve’s number flashing on the small screen. Captain America, as polite as he was, didn’t do friendly phone calls.

“I need your help. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think we’d need you.”

The kids were used to it. Gone one minute and back the next – it was an unconventional parenting strategy but it worked for the Barton’s. Not saying goodbye meant he had to go home eventually, Laura had always joked, although the sentiment had come to mean something else as the missions got progressively more dangerous. Clint had to get back alive because he didn’t want to let the children down and he hadn’t said goodbye to them yet.

* * *

“If there was nothing I could do,” Clint’s reply was measured, orchestrated almost, as if he’d been aiming to get to it all along. “If there was nothing I could do to save Scott, then there was nothing you could do any better.” Steve opened his mouth to argue but faltered at the first syllable. Clint was right, as he often was, and Steve had nothing to say in reply.

“What Scott needs, is time and help,” Clint continued, turning to back away down the corridor, “I think he’d like to see you, as well.”

“He’s still awake?” Steve asked, sounding surprised. Clint nodded, resting a hand on the doorknob and gesturing to him with his head.

“Talk to him,” Clint implored quietly, and suddenly, as if raising his head had removed a smoke screen, Steve saw the tiredness and the dimmer light behind his eyes. Clint wrung his hands together awkwardly in front of him. “He’s confused and half terrified. And he wants to see for himself that everyone’s alive and fine.” Steve thought he caught a murmured ‘stubborn bastard' escape the other man’s lips fondly and he managed some quirked variation of a smile.

* * *

The small room emptied almost knowingly as Clint and Steve entered the room. The latter was soon left alone with a few steps to take between the door and the chair that felt like miles. He didn’t like hospitals, harbouring some disdain towards them for all the times he’d relied on Bucky to take care of him when the doctor’s bills were too high.

And then there was Scott, propped up with two pillows and smiling inwardly, his face somewhere between intense relief and melancholy contemplation. It wasn’t a cheerful expression but it got Steve’s feet moving of their own accord and he found himself sat down in no time at all. He couldn’t decide where to start. ‘Are you OK?’ felt trivial and belittling. ‘I’m glad you’re alive' was maybe too direct.

“Me too,” Scott mumbled from the bed and for a second Steve thought he had spoken aloud before realising the other man was still searching for the right words himself.

“I’m not really okay, but I don’t regret it,” Scott spoke softly, answering every question that sprung to Steve’s mind knowingly, “I feel guilty because everyone seems to feel the same way about me and it also seems to be upsetting them. Bucky – I like him, he seems less afraid of doing something wrong around me. Tony didn’t know what was happening-” he sounded a little unsure of that remark but Steve nodded in agreement “-but I’m not completely comfortable around him right now, if that’s okay.”

Steve wanted to tell him it was fine, more than fine, but the words died somewhere between his brain and his mouth so he nodded firmly and remained quiet.

“Then there’s you,” Scott began to mumble again and the red that flared up along his cheekbones stood out starkly against the pallid colour of his skin, “I admired you, when I was younger. I wanted Cassie to look up to someone like you as she we growing up. So, the least I could do was hide a single location from _them_. I wanted to do my job right.”

“This wasn’t your job,” Steve’s voice wilted over the course of a few words and he leaned forwards in his seat, “You did this for whatever reason you had but I will owe you a debt I can’t repay for the rest of my life. And I don’t know how to thank you but...”

“You saved my life,” Scott repeated back to him softly, “If you hadn’t arrived on time-” he broke off, clasping one hand over the other as they quivered slightly. He sighed microscopically into his bed sheets and then looked up at Steve with suddenly welling eyes. “She went without a dad for too long already. I can’t leave her like that, not in a way she’s too young to understand.”

“You’re part of the team,” Steve promised quietly, “I don’t leave people behind. We don’t leave people behind.” Scott’s eyes were slipping closed occasionally and he tried to stifle a yawn as he nodded his thanks. Steve sat contemplatively with him, watching his eyes snap open each time he got closer to sleep. 

“I’ll stay,” he found himself offering, the third or fourth time it happened, “Whilst you rest, if you want me to.” Scott’s head rested less tensely against the pillow and he nodded tentatively, brushing Steve’s hand as it rested on the bed with one finger.

“Thank you.” Scott finally allowed himself to rest without feeling the knot building in his stomach. Steve watched his face relax into sleep, free from the concerned furrows that had plagued his brow previously. He brushed Scott’s hand with his own and then shifted in the plastic chair until he was relatively comfortable.

“I’m not going anywhere. Not this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this installment of the author forcing her feelings into the story, Steve gets angry at Tony because I was in the mood to be annoyed at him :p
> 
> I don't dislike Tony at all but it does frustrate me when people say everyone gives Tony and only Tony a hard time. This is a character who has fewer outside commitments than a lot of people (no kids, etc.) and someone who has done some thoughtless things before. I read something once that pointed out how he exposed Clint's family in the raft scene from Civil War to Ross and the government eventhough he knew how hard Clint had tried to keep them quiet. I don't know, it just seems like a shitty thing to do, you know?
> 
> So, I'm still typing away on my phone which is a bit of a nightmare and takes ten times as long to do unfortunately but I really wanted to write today so I dealt with auto-correct :D One in a Million updates will probably start up again when I have a better way to write (next week hopefully) because I have more of a long term plan that I like to have in front of me when I write chapters for that. Thank you for your patience and continual commenting, all of you make me a very happy author :)


	10. Sunsets

The rising smoke stood out harshly in the barren wasteland of ice that surrounded the smouldering bunker from every side. It was as if the desolate building was exhaling, sending a cloud of its own breath into the darkening sky. The place appeared more abandoned than ever before; not to mention the impending snowstorm that would surely erase any remaining signs that people had once been there.

Above the surface, with storm clouds brewing, the final footprints faded away, even the lasting evidence of human intervention wiped away eventually. The clouds rolled onwards, black fingers twisting across the sky, blotting out the sun from the lifeless landscape.

Below the surface, one man worked hard, his face still streaked with soot and his arms aching from the blossoming burns that leave his skin reddened and angry. He reached one hand up to wipe away a bead of sweat, mixing another shade of grey across the palette of his forehead. Stopping at the intact computer screen, he patted the ageing piece of technology almost fondly. The truth was still out there for Stark to find, when his intrigue overtook his best efforts to be a perfect team player.

And the man, face sweating and ears still ringing from his own bomb’s explosion, would wait. For as long as it took.

* * *

Steve awoke with a start, ignoring the persistent ache in his body as it protested his choice of bed, and cracked his neck to both sides. His eyes, still blinking away sleep, sought out Scott in the dark room with an intense urgency that could only have resulted from his dream. Steve shook his head sharply and closed his eyes once more, this time in frustration and not with fatigue. He looked inside of himself wearily for the words to stir some motivation (Scott needs a rock, not a crumbling cliff edge of chalk) although his dream, or rather nightmare, continued to make itself heard.

_It was the same room, pipes perfectly aligned, shadows falling in all the right places. That was the curse of a photographic memory, one of the ‘perks’ of the serum, as Steve never found himself struggling to recreate a scene in his head. It meant that the nightmares never strayed too far into his imagination and the reality he faced every day had a nasty habit of following him to bed._

_Steve could feel himself breathing, although his view was set back a little, as if a camera were attached to his shoulder. And whilst the sensation of a rising and falling chest created a veil of control, the mere out of body experience was enough to make Steve tighten up. And a nightmare was no place to spiral out of control; his imagination was not called up often, but it didn’t need practice to weave a night long dreamscape to remember._

_The room was perfectly still and even the cool air that had brushed across his skin in real life had vacated the lifeless shell. Scott was there too. Perfectly still._

_Steve was next to him before he even had the thought to put one foot in front of the other, leaning over himself as he reached out a tentative hand. From his vantage point, he could see the puddle of blood, merely black and white in the gloom, seep into his blue uniform, creating a twisted, disfigured mimic of the American flag. Dream-Steve was mechanical in nature, his hands perfectly still as he reached out for the body in front of him. Steve thought of his own hands, how they unashamedly shook at the sight of his team mate on the floor. Scott did not stir. Perfectly still._

_Steve could feel a well of panic in his stomach, although he was nothing more than another set of eyes over his own shoulders. It was an unrelenting source of fear, burning yet somehow ice cold in the temperate room. And he could still feel Clint’s hand capturing his arm in a vice-like grip despite the other man’s hollow cheeks and thinning figure. He could still see that look in his eye, far more insistent than he had ever seen the archer on a mission. He could feel Tony entering the room behind him and the way the tension settled like a blanket draped across a bed. And now, in the lifeless room, that single word still echoed around his ears. Raped._

_His eyes had narrowed to tunnel vision at the one word he had hoped not to hear. They still captured every minute detail of Clint’s face losing a battle of wills. He could see the other man crumble inside once more – it was so clearly not the first time, so clearly the tenth or twentieth in an hour, but his eyes, dull and grey before, got somehow duller, somehow greyer. And he couldn’t unsee it, not as he saw a lifeless Scott in front of him, not as that look was projected on the walls in a shower of artificial light._

_It made Scott look worse, his skin still appearing monochrome in the illuminated room. It made the lifeless man somehow further from living. And he was perfectly still._

* * *

Steve noticed, somehow from the depths of his mind, that Scott’s eyes were on him unblinkingly in the darkness. There was a steady scrutiny to his gaze, although he still seemed frail in the hospital bed. He didn’t have to speak to transmit his thoughts, a single look communicating across the small gap impossibly.

“Are you OK?” Scott asked eventually, whispering as if they were talking in the back of a classroom. He had already asked, with his eyes, but he seemed to find a value in the words that made them need saying. Steve huffed out a breath in reply, hinted with self-loathing and contempt.

“You’re allowed to be,” Scott searched for the right word, tilting his head so he could stare at the ceiling, “Not OK.” Steve nodded, though Scott couldn’t see him and joined his eyes on the ceiling. A silence fell across the room and some gnawing paranoia cast his gaze back down, resting on Scott’s perfectly still form. The same feeling of unrest conjured that same bottomless well of worry in Steve’s mind and he spent a moment willing Scott to move just a fraction of an inch before spending another moment searching for something to say that would need a reply.

“Wakanda isn’t much like America,” he started quietly, a stream of conscience flooding the room if only to dry up the well a little, “There’s the technology for starters, and then the resources: beyond anything we’ve ever had at home.” The calculating gaze returned and Scott’s eyes almost narrowed before this irises softened ever so slightly.

“Do you get them a lot?” he murmured, the question aimed at the ceiling, “I do. Sometimes they’re weird, you know? Ant sized predators chasing me in the suit and I can’t get bigger again. Other times I can’t stop thinking them through. It’s the quantum realm usually; I went there once, went sub-atomic, and I can always Cassie calling for me. Always the same, but I never learn that it’s just a dream.”

“The sunset’s pretty spectacular too,” Steve’s voice dropped to a whisper as he shut his eyes tightly and tried to picture the sky, “I watched it yesterday. The clouds and the mountains and the... colours.”

“I look at the sky when I get nightmares.”

“Me too.”

It’s a muttered agreement, nothing more than two words but Steve feels his shoulders straighten in the uncomfortable chair. Scott seems happier, judging from the comfortable quiet that stems from his reply. And when he looked up finally, Steve saw a waning smile, still missing Scott’s eyes but there nonetheless.

“Cap?” Scott looked over to him again, watching for a nod in the darkness. Steve glanced over and raised his eyebrows slightly. “He’s still – still out there, isn’t he?”

“For now,” Steve replied after a long pause. He rubbed a palm across his face with well practiced fatigue that never seemed to go away. “I – for now.” He couldn’t find a suitable promise, a sentence to smooth the frown on Scott’s face so he glanced across to the curtained window and searched for the second best thing he could offer.

“He’s in them now,” Scott admitted slowly, the darkness he created by closing his eyes helping to loosen his tongue. “But he isn’t always there. It’s just a voice or a shadow. That makes it worse, I think.”

Scott looked worn and tired when he glanced back at Steve but there was a spark of something in everything he did that reminded Steve of Peggy. Not of the fierce, strong woman herself, but of the way she made him feel. It didn’t feel right, falling headfirst for someone who needed distance from that sort of thing. But it didn’t feel wrong, which didn’t necessarily quell Steve’s discomfort. And he was used to settling for a second best, for being within reach of a perfect happy ever after and settling for a supporting character’s loose thread ending.

He still had that date with Peggy, still had to learn how to dance. The ice took that away from him.

But maybe he could have some of that with someone else. Maybe he could let himself feel some of what he used to feel again. He’d always felt free with that sort of thing when he was younger, glancing at the other young men as Bucky steered his gaze towards a woman. Of course, he’d always planned to end up with a girl, because of the times, but now?

“I’ll show you the sunsets,” his mouth seemed to be moving before he made his kind up definitively, “When you’re on your feet again.” 

Scott smiled at that, an uplift of one corner of his mouth that illuminated his eyes for a fleeting moment. Steve found himself wondering how that smile would look in the dying light of the sun and how the nebula of colours above Wakanda would fall across Scott’s face. Scott couldn’t help but wonder the same, although he swallowed the thought readily with the lump that formed in his throat. Firstly, it was Captain America. Secondly, he had enough on his plate; there was the inevitable question of trust but Scott didn’t let himself get that far. It wouldn’t work, but a sunset or two wouldn’t hurt.

“I’d like that.”

Steve could hear the hesitation underlying the words, could see the faltering in his smile and the reluctant downturn of his mouth. He still harboured a glimmer of hope at Scott’s warm look, still directed towards him until he forced his own eyes to wander the ceiling. He could hear something behind Scott’s glance; a flurry of emotions encased with a shell of mistrust. Not of Steve, but of people.

Scott wanted to be ready to move on. He wanted to forget everything. But when thinking of that everything, he still felt his breath hitch and his hands fuss with the covers with blind distress. So he wouldn’t move on, not yet, but he could still weather the storm, chase a trail of runaway thoughts, even if all he achieved was distance between himself and everything. Because even if he ran and ended up nowhere, it was better than where he was, anything was better than that.

And a sunset or two wouldn’t hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer - this is so not proof read so I apologise for any mistakes.
> 
> I felt like slowing this down a little with a shorter, introspective chapter. Also, I've been waiting to write Steve/Scott for SO LONG and I just wanted a hint of it :p


	11. Reading

James ‘Bucky’ Barnes was not at ease.

Long before Steve awoke, forehead perspiring with unwept tears of an unknown horror; long before his oldest friend thought of the sunset; long before Scott Lang smiled... 

James ‘Bucky' Barnes looked out across a disquieted world.

His mind was a loud one. It was at its loudest when he was still, standing guard over one thing or another with part of his mind as the remainder concentrated on more important thoughts. Far from the mindless killer he still expected Stark to view him as, Bucky was an intelligent man.

On this particular occasion, he had taken up a sentry position on the balcony of the hospital building. Wakanda was a peaceful place at night. The lights had blinked off slowly until the night sky was free to shine with all its splendour, unrestricted by artificial lighting. Bucky was not interested in the stars, however, but instead on the small collection of books resting against one leg. He had spoken with the new king briefly, long enough to have all accusations lifted and with a spare moment to request use of the Wakandan library.

Although he had never really been given the time, Bucky liked to distance himself from the mindless killing by losing himself in a good book. And later, awaking in a century he no longer felt a part of, educating himself had become a priority. You see, he hated feeling like the ninety year old grandpa in the room (and unfortunately Tony Stark seemed to have that effect on him) and the only way to counteract the intense alien feeling that washed over him every time a conversation turned to the 21st century, Bucky read.

He read about the war, skimming recruitment information but intensely reading through timelines of the later years. The concluding months particularly interested him – after all, he had lost his grip on that train without ever learning the outcome to a most gripping epic. The war accounts he read always had one of two effects. Some of them sent him back, back to the camaraderie and boyish excitement of recruitment, others angering him with the embellished, hyperbolic tales of frivolity on the front line. Those particular stories seemed intent on omitting any details of the death and the endless, relentless cold. They conveniently forgot the nights where bunks seemed empty and desolate, purely because they were empty. Empty because good men had gone out to fight that day. Empty because they weren’t coming back.

But that night, perched above the cobbled courtyard at the door to the hospital, Bucky read about science. He had met the young princess, Shuri, at some point during his medical evaluation. She had been understandably preoccupied at the time but spared a minute to ensure he was free of the mind control that had plagued him for years. She had busied herself, circling him with eagle eyes and a quick wit that left Bucky spinning when she left the room. And as she talked to him, other workers drifted in and out of the small room, throwing terms that went over the older man’s head as he listened to a girl, really a child in comparison, reply with similarly enigmatic phrases.

“What is everyone talking about?” he’d asked eventually, the gnawing disquiet in his head setting his nerves on edge. She laughed, perhaps a tad condescendingly, at his expression before growing solemn herself, once sparkling, youthful eyes darkening impossibly to a sombre shade.

“Your friend, Mr. Lang,” she explained a little more kindly, “His suit, it is quite impressive, even to us. But this worries the other medics because we cannot predict the adverse effects his body may still be experiencing.”

“And all of this talk of sub-atomic? Quantum physics?” Bucky had persisted. Shuri laughed once more at him and scribbled a series of book titles on a scrap of paper. She handed it to him with a smirk ready on her face, although the playful expression passed like a fleeting ray of sunlight amongst clouds.

“I do not have time to teach you quantum mechanics today, Mr. Barnes,” she replied, passing over the scrap of paper, “But these may help, if you are curious.”

And so, Bucky sat, legs swinging from the balcony railings, book in hand. He was surprised to find dates preceding even his own birth referenced in the early chapters, and yet he could not recall ever hearing about the curious world of quantum physics. It was as distracting as any fictional work he had become engrossed in, weaving a thick tapestry of particles that could also be waves, of particles that seemed psychically connected across the universe, of a world below atoms and beyond even the most powerful microscopes.

It was so captivating, that he almost missed the slinking shadow of a man cross from one patch of darkness to another. The streetlights in Wakanda created puddles of softly glowing warmth down every alleyway and street, leaving ample space for someone to sneak through the shadows if they were so inclined.

The figure Bucky eventually spotted, as he glanced up from another page of dense writing and diagrams, was dressed casually, although their hunched, secretive stance suggested otherwise. It took the well trained soldier mere moments to reach the ground, landing silently and pursuing the man swiftly.

Clint turned around before Bucky got within touching distance, bowstring drawn taut and an arrow, that had appeared as if from nowhere, quivering from the tension in his hand. He loosened his grip and dropped the bow down to his side at the sight of Bucky but clicked his tongue almost disapprovingly.

“Could have shot you,” he muttered lowly, with a copious glance to each side, “What’re you doing out so late anyway?” Bucky snorted at the question under his breath, joining Clint in a sweep of the narrow alleyway and shrugging as he did so.

“More to the point, where do you think you’re going?” he shot back evenly, eventual relenting as Clint stayed silent, “Steve’s getting some rest, all of you are recovering, supposedly. I’m just keeping a look out; this place is foreign to me, I don’t like it. And, anyhow, I didn’t feel much like sleeping.”

“Join the club,” the other man agreed resignedly, although the shadows beneath his eyes begged to differ. His fingers were still wrapped securely around his bowstring and the arrow had not been returned to its hiding place, Bucky noticed with a frown.

“You aren’t really thinking of going after him yourself, are you?”

* * *

The silence had returned. A long, echoing silence that filled the small hospital room with an emptiness that set Clint’s nerves on edge.

The bed was comfortable enough. The food, or as much as he’d been able to stomach, had been great. He was warm, but not too hot, and a cooling breeze ruffled the curtains as the window remained propped open. But still, Clint was unsatisfied.

He blamed the inherent monotony of his job. Yes, the situation changed and maybe the cover story would vary to go with it, but at the end of the day his role as an agent had been pretty formulaic. Get in, kill or extract the target, get out. And he’d got in alright; right into the belly of the beast, buried under metres of water at the lowest point in some illegal sea prison. And then he’d got out; far from fine and even more faulty than he usually found himself after a mission, but he was out. 

That left one, gaping problem. Ross was out there, polishing his military standard boots and straightening the buttons on his military standard uniform. The blood on his hands was invisible, joining layer after layer of deception and dishonesty. How many prisons had that man commandeered away from the watchful eye of the US government? How many people had come before Scott?  
Clint didn’t like to think about it, whilst his mind had to disagree. And so, he had sat up in bed, his legs above the covers and head resting on his arms. That thought that didn’t bear thinking; the idea that Scott, his friend, was the latest in a list of helpless prisoners just trying to protect themselves. Clint hated every corner of that notion – he hated the helpless feeling that crept up his neck and despised the images that scalded his brain permanently. He hadn’t needed to see the room Scott was tortured in to come up with vivid recreations of it for himself. He hadn’t needed to hear the broken requests for it all to stop for his imagination to plague the silence with whispers of pleas and suppressed tears.

That was what got him moving, leaving an empty hospital bed and a fully opened window. He left, and a curtain billowed emptily in his place.

* * *

“I’m not much use here,” Clint reasoned steadily, as the tension in his arms subsided minutely, “I don’t think I can help Scott in any other way.” Bucky paused for a moment, conflicted as he found himself questioning his own motives. He was trying to be sensible, one half of his brain reasoned as the other rebelled. Was there really no reluctance? Not a shred of something making him want to be the one that disposed of Ross in some despicable way that would never be mentioned as anything more than a raise of eyebrows in close company? Not that odd tug that made him want to incite revenge, not just on Steve’s behalf, but for this man Bucky couldn’t claim to know?

Bucky could feel a wave of guilt rushing from behind him. That feeling of protectiveness over a team made him feel human, more than any princess assuring him he was undoubtedly back to being himself could. It was the first tangible emotion he could link to anyone other than Steve, besides anger directed at Tony, and Bucky could feel himself clutching it desperately. It kept his head above water, in the same way that knowing just a shred of information about the ‘quantum realm' helped to tie him to the team. He could be of use, other than as a blind killing machine, he could prove his worth, if not to them, then to himself.

“Not tonight,” Bucky found himself saying, detached from the guilt and storm of conflict. It was the sensible thing to do, the Steve thing to do. “It needs all of us. Together.” That seemed to satisfy Clint all too quickly, although Bucky didn’t doubt the other man was telling the truth when he pointed to the open window two floors up and said he would return to bed. Maybe there was something in the way Bucky offered to share the burden, a glimmer of hope in the darkness of a failed mission, but Clint retreated to the hospital with lowered shoulders.

Back in his room, with the window closed and curtains calmly drawn, Clint settled beneath the covers and allowed the tension to drain from his prone body. His bow and arrows were close by, within arm’s reach. But since he had returned, they were just a little further away, and he trusted that front layer of defence ever so slightly more.

* * *

Sam had tried to convince himself that Scott looked more peaceful. He hadn’t been sleeping, and a quick detour to Scott’s room had only seemed logical as he wandered the new surroundings of the hospital uncertainly.

His friend, at first a foe, albeit a far too polite and quirky foe, just didn’t look like himself. Sam noticed the hunched figure of Steve contorted in the chair at Scott’s bedside, somehow asleep in such an uncomfortable position, with a wry smile. The super soldier had taken a clear liking to Sam's recruit, even finding his ever notable introductions to new people endearing. And when you’ve just had your hand shaken for thirty seconds solidly by a nervous, bumbling man, endearing is usually a bit of a push. But Steve had liked him, evidently from the faint smile on his face after their first encounter and again, as he slept alongside him with concern running across his face.

But despite the calm on Scott’s face, the signs were still there – signs that Sam found himself drawn to. There was the grip on the covers, bunched a little too tightly and projecting tension around the room. And the way Sam had to really strain his eyes to follow the slow, shallow rise and fall of Scott’s chest.

And when he wasn’t smiling or laughing or growing to the size of a small skyscraper out of nowhere, Scott just wasn’t Scott. In the same way that Sam couldn’t picture Bucky without Steve or Tony without a new gadget, Scott without a hint of spontaneity didn’t even cross his mind. He talked to ants and shrank to the size of the insects themselves. He took part in wild heists and quietly schemed alone, too busy trying to be funny instead of showing everyone how clever he could be. But Sam could see it, in moments of courage and bravery, like how he tested a new function of his suit in the middle of a battle just to get two total strangers to safety. And maybe it was a stupid risk on the surface, but it was calculated and assured. He was no fool, Scott Lang was quietly intelligent.

And now? Sam didn’t doubt his friend’s intelligence, he didn’t mourn the loss of a quick wit that would surely resurface eventually. But he did question why it had to go away in the first place. And why it couldn’t have been someone else. Anyone else; someone who’d been horrible to a single person in their life. Because Sam couldn’t see that in Scott. He could see a man who had been sent to prison in an attempt to give back to people who had been wronged and a man who had been incarcerated again for standing up for his friends' beliefs. And that didn’t fit the silence or the hospital bed.

Sam hovered at the doorway for a moment longer than he meant to, searching for a hint of his friend as another slipped out through an open window. He grew angry once more at the man responsible, almost giving in himself to the temptation to get out there and end it.

Sam was craving vindication, searching for justice amongst the ever faltering legal system that had stranded his team without a home, without a feeling of safety that made walking down the road easy. And above all, Sam wanted his friend back. He wanted all of them back, just the way they had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to update again for a little while but I wanted to mark the Ant Man and the Wasp release date so here it is!!
> 
> This chapter features more Bucky, as requested last chapter and I actually really enjoyed playing with his character so I hope you liked it :)
> 
> I also wanted to say happy birthday to hi_tired_im_dad, who said their birthday was on the release date!! I'm always excited to see their reviews and they are very consistent and kind whenever they comment so thank you and I hope you enjoy your day :)


	12. Crashing

Take it slowly, they said.

Give it more time, they said.

One step at a time, they said.

Fucking ironic, that third one was. Because Scott was about twelve miles away from square one, never mind being halfway from even standing on his own two feet. The idea of stepping anywhere, be it a stride or a limping millimetre, almost made the man laugh out loud. He didn’t do too much of that anymore.

It had been a torturous week.

He’d missed Steve’s company after the first night. For a moment he worried that their midnight conversation had gone too far, that the scarily familiar feelings welling up inside of him were entirely misdirected, but Sam had promised that the Captain was just busy. Sam had a way of knowing things like that, as if he knew the secret language of subtle movements and pauses.

One too many glances towards the door, Scott suspected, had provoked such reassurances. And he forgave the smug grin that fleeted across Sam’s face for a moment as he said it because anything that wasn’t pity helped to tear down the numbness enveloping Scott’s body. It wasn’t that he couldn’t appreciate a little sympathy and support from time to time, but he honestly didn’t feel terrible. It was temporary (he’d be lying if he said it was anything else) but for the time being, some unhealthy part of Scott’s brain was dissociating extremely proficiently. And for the time being, he wanted the rest of them to take one non-step at a time, to take the time to heal themselves.

Bucky was pretty good at that. For a man of an earlier time period, he had the social filter of a curious child and the manners of a baby elephant in a china shop. It was spectacularly destructive, watching him so clearly attempt to stick to some script when the two of them talked. And everyone had been talking, Scott had deduced quickly, talking about the taboo subjects and writing down a list of said subjects for Bucky, who forgot them regularly. 

Scott could see himself becoming good friends with the other man. Bucky laughed and spoke at a volume usually unreached in a hospital. But he was never disruptive or rude. Far from it; he had an uncanny ability to turn an uncomfortable question into some surprisingly tasteful joke and there was a calculating look ever present in his eyes. He wouldn’t stop Scott either, letting him talk, letting his mouth run away with itself. Talking to Bucky was like the freedom he felt talking to Steve without having to deal with any conflicting feelings. Barnes really was one of a kind.

“So, Dr. Pym?” Bucky asked one day, casually throwing a plastic knife from hand to hand, twirling it in his fingers like a baton and occasionally jabbing it sideways with too much force for such a childish utensil. Scott had been enjoying his usual boredom invoking ‘hour of staring at the ceiling’ so he rolled his head over on the pillow and glanced at the other man. Bucky seemed to enjoy his babysitting duties, if only to pick Scott’s brains about a new found passion for physics. One of the more patient Wakandan scientists, Shuri, always shared a sympathetic eye roll with Scott if she interrupted the other man mid sentence.

“Old guy,” Scott replied with a slightly wistful smile, “Bit of a dick with a passionate hate for all Starks. Kinda reminds me of someone else.” Bucky paused halfway between a jab and a slash with the plastic knife and halted midair.

“So, he used to wear the suit?” he eventually chose to ignore Scott’s retort with a mild mannered grin. Scott nodded and remembered for the first time that Hank was likely to be pissed off at him for stealing his tech and taking it within a hundred feet of Tony Stark.

“And there was a Wasp,” Scott replied, “They worked together, until the quantum realm got in the way of things.” That made Bucky lean forward in the chair with interest. Not only did he like a good story, Scott had learned quickly, but he never passed up an opportunity to learn more about the mysterious quantum world.

“You – you went there, right?” Bucky asked eventually, his eyes darting to one side to check the door. Scott smiled to himself at the likeness between Barnes and Cassie when his daughter had done something wrong. And that made things interesting, because Bucky had strayed onto the blacklist of topics. Scott imagined ‘going sub-atomic and almost kind of dying but worse’ was pretty high up on that list.

“I did,” he replied, not pausing for long as Bucky leaned forward again, “And I can’t remember much of it, sorry. It was… interesting. In the dreams, everything just sorta shrunk, you know? And I could still hear Cassie, I think.” Scott fell silent. The quantum realm was a grey area for him: some days it was just another adventure, a badge to add to the collection. On others, it offered a longer moment of contemplation. There was no escaping the fact that he had been far too close to shrinking indefinitely, the lamenting cries of his daughter forever ringing in his ears. But, then again, it had seemed a little peaceful down there, maybe too peaceful. It was another one of those silences, this one endless to the point of agoraphobia.

“Steve’s been trying to understand all that quantum physics stuff I keep reading recently,” and there Bucky went, changing the subject at the right moment. Scott shot him an appreciative smile that widened minutely at the mention of Steve. Bucky always remained persistently oblivious to these glimmers of gratitude, but his eyes narrowed microscopically as he glanced out of the corner of his eye. Sergeant James Barnes did not miss much. Bucky Barnes did not miss his friends falling into some stilted, disjointed form of love.

* * *

The inevitable crash came ten days post-Raft. 

It seemed cruel, almost, that Scott’s brain let him get as far as moving out of hospital and into a modest bedroom in the palace before taking him for a spin. Sleeping hadn’t been easy in what Clint was quick to call ‘The Golden Hours’ but it bordered on impossible that first night.

The bed felt foreign, to start with. And it didn’t help that when he opened his eyes, Scott felt just as disoriented as when he had them closed. His mind, having ruined a fairly average afternoon already, seemed determined to replay its triumphs on a constant, unrelenting loop instead of allowing Scott to sleep. It was headache inducing to say the least.

Scott had woken that morning for his final day in hospital, anticipating a feeling of excitement and receiving nothing but a deep set pit of dread. It was getting close to the storm of emotions that had wrapped around his head before leaving the cell for the last time. It was a deafening, blinding, sense-numbing wall of inexplainable fear that left his mouth dry and his breaths shallow. He appreciated the lack of a cardiograph that morning, mostly because he could feel his heart hammering through the sheets and being able to hear it would only have been cruel.

‘It’s called an anxiety attack,’ he was told minutes later, when some nurse he’d never seen before had somehow got him to calm down. If he’d been in the mood to talk, he might have found a clever response because, hey, it wasn’t like he’d meandered through life without encountering one of them before.

Luis was pretty good at dealing with Scott’s hyperactive mind. They’d shared a cell, after all. He’d known Scott when Scott was a guy working in IT who made an uncharacteristically brave decision to go all Robin Hood on a multi-million dollar company. An that guy working in IT was not equipped to deal with prison. He was also susceptible to the odd panic attack.

Scott could deal with them himself, in his own ‘suppress the hell out of it’ way. Waking up in a stranger’s bed surrounded by ants had been a close call. He still thought, had Hope not been there, he might have given himself five minutes to really freak out. And then there was the night before the heist and the only thing that had kept him clinging to the edge of some metaphorical cliff was a visit to see Cassie. Sometimes, Scott just listened to the pit of uncertainty and did what it said; seeing Cassie had been all it took to smooth the roughened seas of his stomach.

But that morning, when he was being told about something he was more than used to dealing with, Scott hoped Cassie wasn’t the answer. Because he was stuck in a country that had only properly existed for a year or so, barred from entering almost any other country and scared shitless at the thought of seeing Cassie.

His day only got worse, now coupled with a sort of mourning for his daughter, as he started getting jumpy. That was the only word for it, really. He’d had no problem with feeling a hand rub against his arm or having a doctor change his IV. Not until then.

First it was the same nurse who had tried to explain panic attacks. She’d meant well, Scott knew deep down, but there was a layer of distrust in everything that had only reared its head since he’d woken up. It was that layer that made him almost back into the wall against his bed when she’d been checking his blood pressure. And it was then that he accepted the crash and all the pity that was coming his way.

The worst was Clint. Scott had seen a little of the archer that week, although he seemed to prefer taking a night shift. They hadn’t spoken too much although there was a doubtless, unspoken tension between them. Scott disliked it intensely, feeling his friend shift uncomfortably in his seat, exuding nervous, guilt-ridden energy. Scott had never dealt with other people’s guilt well. And, with perfect timing, the day Clint seemed to come round a little, Scott decided to flinch at the simplest touch. It had been a pat on the shoulder, far away from any of the last bruises and cuts to heal. It had been the first display of comfort, the first genuine smile on Clint’s face. It hadn’t lasted.

So being left in a foreign room; alone, in the dark and far from at ease; wasn’t the best position for Scott to be in. He still had one arm in a sling but if he hadn’t, he would have rolled on to his front, burying his head into the pillow and searching for respite in the darkness he created. Instead, he lay, staring at the much more featureless ceiling, until a restless energy built up intolerably throughout his nervy body.

He thought that the times when he didn’t feel trapped in the biggest rooms, or confined in the trapping thoughts in his head, would be the most freeing. He’d hoped that this would be the case. He was wrong.

The anger, directed inwards in the most painful, gut-twisting way, started to hit him with the full force of a train every so often. He gripped the sheets of his bed as he sat with his feet just skimming the floor, knuckles white and veins harsh against pale skin. 

There were reasons to be hopeful, he’d been told on too many occasions. Cassie, for starters. He could see her soon, Sam had told him as he leant in the doorway before backtracking at Scott’s crestfallen expression, or whenever he was ready, of course. Scott couldn’t do it to her. Not to the girl who found the silver lining in everything, not to the kid that should stay young and untouched for many years to come. How would she feel if she saw her dad like that? A shell, flinching at the smallest things; what if he shied away from her? What if he scared her? What if she didn’t want to see him again?

Scott’s hands were sweating as he pressed his fingers into his palms. He realise slowly that he had pushed himself to the edge of the mattress, and that his feet were no longer hanging precariously above the floor but had settled onto the cold tiles experimentally. He allowed his eyes to slip closed again, far from the clenched scrunch from the previous seconds, and pressed his toes into the ground until the pressure on his hands lessened. Scott’s left eye opened just enough to let a sliver of light reach his iris. He glanced down and then removed his hands from behind him, on the bed, breathing a sharp breath of air and standing on his own two feet, alone. He was yet to walk unassisted and whilst he had found being wheeled to his room mildly humiliating, he had to admit it was probably necessary.

The first step was the hardest; it was as if he was stepping away from the supports that held him up, like the final beam being removed from beneath the new storey of a building. He held his breath, waiting for the plaster to crumble around him, prepared to be strewn across the tiles in tiny pieces, fragmented beyond use. He awaited the sharp pain of falling to the floor but felt only the faint, dull ache of previous injuries.

“You’re up,” Steve’s soft voice greeted him from the doorway. He’d wedged himself in the door, cautious to come in. It provoked a half-smile on Scott’s face as he saw it; Captain America, polite and hospitable until the end.

“I seem to be,” he replied with a wry glance at the other man, “I’m not sure how long it will last.” Scott could feel the almost gentle wavering of his legs, like bulrushes in a spring breeze. Steve accepted his reply as an invitation and stepped into the room, casting his usual surveying glance around the room.

“Are you feeling better today?” He sounded hopeful, although he didn’t meet Scott’s eye and there was still an undertone of guilt.

“Not exactly,” Scott muttered, watching for the microscopic shoulder slump, “Angry, actually. I was thinking about – things. I guess it got me moving.” Steve did look up at that, a questioning glance intermingled with unpatronising sympathy. The two were forced together in the narrow room and Scott found himself taking a few shaking steps to stand in front of the Captain less awkwardly. Steve held out a wary arm to steady him, a gesture Scott took gratefully, without the reflexive wince. The tension and the anxiety had melted away microscopically, leaving Scott with nothing but a bout of childhood butterflies, fluttering in his stomach.

“You can be angry and better,” Steve murmured, not meeting his eyes again, “Sometimes, feeling anything is a step in the right direction.” Again, Scott tilted his head to one side. It often felt like Steve was speaking from experience when his voice lowered and took on a raw quality. And like the nightmares, the two of them seemed to have found something else to share. It was a sad list, really, their similarities.

“I guess,” Scott replied in an equally low tone, “I was worried about Cassie.” He inhaled slowly through his nose, unsure if this sudden stream of honesty was intentional or a side effect of the medicine he seemed to be taking constantly.

“I don’t want her to see me like this,” he continued in an even voice, mechanical, “I’m scared that she will think of me in a different way. Or that she’ll be afraid.” Steve’s hand moved slowly up and down his arm, less of a structural support and more an emotional bolster.

“Yes, she might be scared,” Steve reasoned under his breath, looking up from the floor finally with determination, “ _For_ you, not of you. She’s your family, Scott, and seeing your family get hurt is painful. It makes you feel worried for them, hesitant around them, guilty even when they don’t want you to be.” There was the same raw look of honesty in Steve’s eyes reflected from Scott’s. The latter drew him into a cautious hug, hearing the shift in his words turn to something else. Scott’s head leant against Steve’s chest, obscuring his face in a tangled mess of hair. Steve could feel his breaths and words echo through his chest. He felt the almost constant tremble of exertion running through Scott’s body, and the tension leaking from loosening shoulders.

“It’s not your fault,” Scott whispered, because his voice seemed to cut out, “It was him and no one else. If you hadn’t turned up when you did, well, you know what was going to happen. I should be thanking you.” Scott could feel Steve shake his head next to his shoulder and pulled back firmly.

“I won’t, if it makes you feel better,” he continued with a weak smile, “But I really am grateful. For everything.” Steve held him at arms length for a moment before nodding with a quirked smile and returning the embrace once more.

“And if it makes you feel better, you’re welcome,” he accepted the gratitude softly, feeling Scott’s shoulders relax slightly between his arms, “We’d all do it again for you, Scott. I’d do it again.”

But whilst the tension had been released, Scott couldn’t help but listen to the carousel of thoughts. It felt endless; reasons to get away from the lot of them, to put as much distance between the team that had begun to mean everything and his disaster prone self.

Full of shit. Hank had told him that, jokingly or not. He was right, regardless of the context. The team didn’t need that around them, it was like an infection.

Expendable. Hell, he’d called himself that. Hired for his lack of connection to the employer. He wore the suit because Hank Pym’s daughter couldn’t. He supposed that made him incompetent too…

“Hey, Scott,” Steve’s eyes were in front of his own, “You’re alright.” Scott felt himself shaking again, memories of that morning resurfacing. He shuddered as he forced himself to breathe evenly, a thankless task when in the middle of a panic attack but he liked to be optimistic. Steve was rubbing his arms gently again, murmuring something indistinctly below the static of anxiety, like audible tunnel vision.

He didn’t feel alright. Alright was yesterday. Alright was a few weeks ago. Alright was the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am free of my phone's autocorrect!!
> 
> I’m finally back to updating as usual with 100% more proof reading and absolutely no guarantee that it will make a difference :p
> 
> And I’m watching Ant Man and the Wasp tomorrow so life is good :)
> 
> Finally, I know there are a lot of Ant Man references in this; I watched it this afternoon in preparation for tomorrow so it was fresh in my mind and just kept cropping up :D


	13. Back Home

Scott didn’t feel much like sleeping. 

That was a lie, in all honesty. Since arriving in Wakanda he had been exhausted from head to toe, ready to curl back up and sleep just after waking up in the morning. And the wave of tiredness that always hit him after a panic attack was there, catching up with him just after the oxygen managed it, one more challenge.

Steve could tell, in his own, oddly telepathic way. At some point between Scott checking out with a significant lack of air to breathe and finally returning to the land of a steady pulse rate, he’d been led to the double bed in the corner of the room, which had already felt huge, dwarfing his slim figure. Even at home, or Luis’ flat which he was inclined to call home, he’d only ever had the box room in the back, sharing it with a washing machine that gave up on washing within a week or so and a narrow single bed. In summer it had been sweltering, in winter the temperature resembled what Scott imagined sleeping in an igloo felt like on the skin. But home was home and there was something cosy about barely fitting in a bed.

This wasn’t the case in Wakanda. There was an intriguing conflict between the ornate and the modest. Technology beyond the rest of the world lined the sensibly minimalist hospital walls and, later, the palace. And even the grandest building in the capital city was lacking any real spark. It wasn’t unimpressive but Scott could picture himself living there which wasn’t something he usually associated with palaces. The bed was a different matter altogether, of course. It took up a large proportion of the already massive room and its surface was almost entirely covered in those pointless cushions that spend more time on the floor than they do on the bed.

It was thinking like this, wildly and tangential, that kept Scott’s mind away from what he was now christening the box of bad ideas. If there was one thing he could do, it was deflect and avoid the hell out of everything. Cassie, home and Ross quickly became off limits – although it did pain Scott slightly to lump his daughter in with the animal himself who had left him in said predicament. 

Scott was sat, a little stiffly, with his head against the wall, surrounded by the cushions that turned out to be quite comfortable when they weren’t immediately relegated to the floor without a second thought. Steve sat beside him, legs stretching out a few inches further across the lavish bedspread. He kept one arm pooled in his lap, absentmindedly tapping against his leg so often and the other circling Scott’s shoulders. That was how Scott was sat when he got himself out of his own head and it was how the two of them continued to sit for the remainder of the night.

There was an easy silence between them for a lot of it. Steve’s fingers rubbed small circles against Scott’s skin when he wasn’t thinking too hard and Scott’s head occasionally slipped on to Steve’s shoulder when his eyes slipped closed briefly. These small lapses seemed to wake both men from their collective stupors; one would shift slightly, maybe edge away to give the other space. Within minutes they were locked back into the same routine. Lazy patterns, tired eyes.

The curtains were still open from the previous evening, allowing the room to slowly brighten with the rising sun. It began softly, first casting the room in a fiery glow of pinks and reds before devolving into a smattering of yellows and oranges. When the first light hit the furthest corner of the bed, the sun seemed to slow dramatically and Scott watched the light creep its way up the covers achingly slowly. It bathed Steve’s feet with warmth first, making the captain flex his toes slightly and close his eyes comfortably. He seemed truly content, a sight which only served to illuminate a cautious smile on Scott’s face. Perhaps it was that initial feeling of calm that finally broke through, but Scott eventually felt his eyes close permanently and when his head brushed Steve’s shoulder, he couldn’t find the energy to move it.

Steve remained perfectly still when the first even breath escaped Scott’s partially open mouth. The latter snored a little, but not loudly, and was soon mumbling and sighing to himself every so often in unbroken, peaceful slumber.

* * *

Tony paced the conference room that had become a temporary workspace for the Avengers in Wakanda with increasing frustration. A scrolling feed of news articles littered the screens behind him and, when the tiring man could bring himself to look, none of them were painting a pretty picture. For starters, Ross with his all too impeccable military boots and polished buttons was certainly not a man to go into business with. Jumping at the chance to throw Tony under the bus, he seemed determined to feed every media outlet with a hundred stories (most inaccurate or blatantly false) about the increasingly angry Stark. 

However, Tony’s emotions were far from boiling over merely from that. Rather, it was the continued coverage of the airport battle, something everyone seemed interested in again since the prison break. More precisely, it was the incorrect coverage of the airport battle and a lack of anything after that. But as much as Tony wanted to go live from Wakanda and broadcast one of his trademark ‘come and get me’ speeches, there were reasons to play this one more smartly. First and foremost, Steve would not forgive Tony if the US government turned up on their doorstep, demanding to take Scott and the rest of them back to the same prison. Secondly and not to be ignored, it was not just the US government but seemingly every government on the planet. And finally and a little disappointingly, Tony couldn’t just reel off an address and invite the soldiers over seeing as he had very little idea over the precise location of Wakanda.

Clint entered the room with a tablet under one arm and bags under both eyes. Tony turned his head from the scrolling walls of text and shut off the constant feed of news. He nodded to the other man in greeting, noting his stiff posture and unusual discomfort. There was no spark of the usual Clint Barton who used to frequently drop from an air vent into the lab when Tony was working. Tony liked receiving a visit from the ex-agent, glad to see someone who wouldn’t tell him to sleep or to eat but instead through a mostly squashed burger at him and lie across the sofa like he owned the place.

“I’ve been running checks on any associates we may have in America,” he reported almost mechanically, lazily swiping the screen of his tablet so his research flooded the wall of screens behind Tony. “Scott’s the one with the most family out in the open, I should be fine and Steve’s got everyone he has here with him.”

“And Agent Romanoff?” Tony asked curiously. Natasha was an anomaly to him, especially after her changing allegiances throughout the accords conflict. She’d always appeared reliable although Tony realised that he’d perhaps given the spy too much credit; she had been trained to double cross people after all. That being said, there hadn’t been a need to speak so sharply to her the last time they met and, being as scared of her as he secretly was, Tony dreaded any answer from Clint that involved the other spy coming to Wakanda.

“I called her,” Clint replied, brandishing a small flip phone when Tony opened his mouth to express his concern, “This phone doesn’t exist to anyone but ‘Tasha and me. There’s no way to trace it, Stark.” Again, Tony heard the weariness in Clint’s tone, a reluctance to justify himself to the man who had imprisoned him.

“What did she say?”

“She’s dealing with the fallout on her end,” Barton returned to a business-like tone, “It would be illogical to try to evade the authorities and meet up with us here. Anyway, I need eyes in America, for Laura and the kids.” Tony wondered for a moment if Clint had more ‘friends’ than he had previously imagined, picturing the lonely farmhouse ignited with conversation between the Barton’s and their associates who watched out for the children when Clint and Natasha couldn’t.

Steve appeared in the doorway as Clint fell silent, fixing Tony with a calculated glance briefly and then entering the room fully. Their conversation from several nights before unforgotten, neither man had found the much needed motivation to talk to the other civilly. And, as Tony was a Stark and therefore stubborn as a brick wall, Steve imagined he would be doing the talking. As far as Tony was concerned, they at least saw eye to eye about one thing.

“Stark, Clint,” he greeted, sparing a brief smile for the latter who returned it with equally strained eyes. He glanced up at the screen, his eyes flitting across each map and surveillance photograph before resting on one.

“Cassie?” he asked Clint who nodded shortly. “Any news?”

“The house hasn’t been approached by the authorities although they did receive a visit from Hope Van Dyne, Dr. Pym’s daughter and currently working under the alias, ‘Wasp.’ She seemed to be looking for Scott, but I’ve only got satellite images to go off.” Steve nodded slowly, pointing to a photo of a young woman with straight black hair to confirm that it was her. 

“Company profile from Pym Laboratories before Scott shut it down,” Clint clarified before pointing to an older man, “That’s Dr. Pym. The two of them seem to be active on the black market at the moment, looking for all sorts of obscure scientific equipment. Their house has been vacant for a couple of days and they don’t seem to have a fixed place of residence as far as I can tell.”

“On the run,” Tony interjected with faltering confidence and clearing his throat, “I expect the use of their suit in Germany violates a clause in the accords so they’ll be arrested on sight.” Steve barely glanced in Tony’s direction but nodded in agreement thoughtfully.

“Keep an eye on them,” he instructed Clint softly, “We don’t know where they’ll be taken. I expect the Raft is out of commission for now.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Clint muttered darkly, his eyes flaring at the mention of the prison, “Ross hasn’t resurfaced yet.” 

“There’s still time,” Steve tried to remain patient although he too was on edge without a clear view of their biggest threat. Tony shared his discomfort, now a fully fledged criminal with the rest of the team and on the run from Rhodes and the rest of his mistakes. Speaking of, the final photo finally caught his attention.

“Where did you find that?” he asked sharply, staring at Peter Parker’s school photo from the previous year with a welling pool of guilt in his stomach. The smile, perfectly innocuous and his button-down shirt creaseless and smart – he didn’t belong on a battlefield. And he’d valued his hidden identity, Tony had seen that in every darting glance towards his aunt when the two of them first met. He’d seen the uncertainty when Peter was invited to Berlin, the prospect of hiding himself on such a public stage was unnerving.

“You found out,” Clint replied steadily, “If you can find him, so can we.”

“Why’s he up there?” Tony asked casually, not wanting to hear the answer and feel that guilt stir up inside him.

“Because Ross could go after anyone who was in Germany with the rest of us,” Steve replied for Clint, “And Mr. Parker is the least equipped to defend himself if the government find him.” Tony thought briefly of a rescue mission; he could get into New York, get the kid out of school and be back in Wakanda safely in a few hours. And then he heard his voice, young and unscarred by the rest of the world; _I have homework, Mr. Stark. I can’t just leave._

“What can we do, anyway?” Clint suddenly asked, dropping the tablet onto the table, “A hundred odd countries, just as many governments, and all of them are after us. We can’t stay here forever but everywhere else in the world is one massive trap.” He paced up and down for a moment before muttering down at his feet frustratedly. “These fucking accords, man.”

“There was a need for regulation, you can’t disagree with that,” Tony appealed to him despite Steve’s warning glare, “We were uncontrolled and the fate of the entire planet can’t rest on the questionable morals of 10 or so people.”

“There was a need for regulation,” Clint repeated in agreement before spinning on his heel with a frown, “There was no need for this.” Steve had crossed his arms tiredly but nodded slowly in agreement.

“Ultron,” Clint began again forcefully, “A country would have been dropped from the sky if we hadn’t been there, even if we did cause collateral damage in the process.” Tony rubbed a hand across his face tiredly, his back to the other men. Finally he turned around and held his hands out placatingly.

“Ultron was my fault,” he implored angrily, “Ultron wouldn’t have existed if we were being monitored and controlled.” Clint mimicked Steve’s pose, folding his arms across his chest in disagreement.

“I’m not an asset that can be controlled,” he spat bitterly, “I tried being that once, when Loki almost forced me to kill my best friend. It’s not nice Stark, being told what to do when you don’t agree with the order.”

“What about New York?” Steve spoke up suddenly, “If we’d waited for authorisation from every country involved in the accords, how much more damage would there have been? Loki would have had an hour’s head start on us. It could have been devastating.” Tony didn’t want to reply, to angrily mutter that it was devastating and that he’d been living with those consequences ever since. He didn’t want to tell them that he’d seen every single avenger die as Ultron threatened to take over the world. He couldn’t admit that the worst part was not their deaths but the fact that his own life didn’t add one to the casualties statistic.

“It’s not a perfect system, Steve,” he granted reluctantly, “But nothing will be.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D wasn’t bad,” Clint interjected pointedly, “Why not reinstate that?”

“Maybe because of HYDRA,” Tony replied scathingly, feeling his blood begin to simmer again. He took a breath and calmed himself, partly out of duty but mostly because he was fed up of fighting his friends.

“It’s not up to us,” Steve quelled the argument simply, “We just have to deal with the consequences for now and regroup when everything changes. Meanwhile, Clint, you need to sleep for more than two hours and let someone else take a shift.” Clint nodded exhaustedly and slid the tablet across the table to Tony.

“If you want to check on Pepper,” he trailed off and gestured at the device before crossing the room to reach the door. Tony opened his mouth and faltered for a moment before persisting anyway.

“Hey, Barton,” he called to the retreating man who paused, barely suppressing a sigh. Tony tried again, opting for a friendlier approach. “Clint.”

“I don’t want to hear it, To-”

“I’m sorry, okay?” Tony interrupted in a single breath, “I never meant for this to happen.”

“It is what it is,” Clint replied, finally quirking half a smile in Tony’s direction. It wasn’t the same expression he had when he broke into Tony’s workshop and there wasn’t that easiness about his posture or a comfort in his presence. But it was a start.

And all Tony needed to do was make a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry for the lapse in updates. I’ve not been doing great recently; I’ve been a bit ill and also just down in general. A lot of real life stuff is happening in the next year or so and I’m trying not to let it get on top of me as that’s is the perfect recipe for anxiety and worry!
> 
> I watched amatw again yesterday. It was just as good the second time and I wrote a little one-shot about it (just a little bit of self promotion :p ). I’m trying to write as much as I can when I feel like it because it’s great for relieving stress but I don’t want to promise too many updates right now.
> 
> As always, I appreciate every comment and bit of feedback I get, they always mean a lot <3


	14. Peggy

“You’re a mystery, Stevie,” Bucky’s voice almost startled Steve into loudly shutting the door he was trying to be quiet with. He turned his head to the end of the corridor as the handle released silently from his hand and calmed the elevation of his heart rate.

“I’ve not heard that one for a while,” he fell into step alongside his friend, referring to the childhood nickname with a smile falling on the border between reminiscent and embarrassed. Bucky shrugged and quirked a similar smirk, leaning far more heavily on remembrance.

“You and Scotty, huh?” he continued as if Steve hadn’t made a comment. He had a very brisk approach to most things and what Steve considered a modern day attitude towards getting to the point. He had wondered where Bucky could possibly have picked up this sudden talent for raising his eyebrows at the right moment to imply something risqué although he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

“Me and Scott,” Steve echoed with what he hoped sounded oblivious. It was no lie that the sound of his name followed by Scott’s stirred something inside of him, although he wasn’t ready to delve too deeply into what it was.

“You and Scott,” Bucky repeated once more, the grin on his face implying that he was enjoying what Steve could only assume was embarrassment on his own face far too much. “Like I said, a mystery.”

“I think we both knew something back then,” Steve kept it vague, mostly because it was awkward to talk about but also because ‘back then’ reminded him of home and home reminded him of something out of his reach. It was a pointless spiral to get dragged into.

“Because you glanced at the men whenever I set up a double date for the two of us?” Bucky asked with another smirk, “And yes, I did notice that. It’s a good job most other people didn’t.” He wasn’t wrong; open minded was beyond the vocabulary of most people Steve saw on a day to day basis. Mixing with other men was probably the only other way to get yourself turned away at recruitment as well, besides being underweight and well below the minimum height. And seeing as Steve was already too small to ride the rides, he too was slightly surprised no one had ever noticed his wandering gaze.

“Although to be fair, some of the guys you were looking at weren’t all that bad,” Bucky had continued to talk, listing nine or ten men he should definitely have ignored. Steve punched his arm without faltering as they walked side by side. It was nice and altogether unusual to see his friend away from the temporary sentry station he’d set up outside the palace.

“I didn’t think Scott would be your type, I must admit,” Bucky continued again, his voice hushed and conspiratorial. Steve had to roll his eyes, only managing to see a likeness between Bucky and the groups of girls that gossiped on TV shows and failing to look beyond it. “You’re playing with fire, Steve.”

Fire being the general situation that had stranded them in Wakanda, of course. Fire in that Scott was a hurt, anxious man with more on his mind than a whirlwind romance with Captain America. Not that that was Steve’s intention although he’d been reining himself in for a while, desperate not to overstay his welcome in an evening, quietly leaving the room when he knew the other man was asleep. Like the night when Bucky decided to give him a heart attack as he shut the door.

“I’m being careful,” he assured Bucky who had also become unlikely friends with Scott, “I wouldn’t do anything to push him too far.”

“I know,” his friend replied easily, “But, didn’t he have a fling with that Hope lady before Germany happened.” Steve laughed quietly under his breath at the memory of Scott’s rather hopeless account of that conversation.

“I believe the words she used were ‘totally irresponsible and idiotic,’” Scott had told him with a rare smile. He’d phoned her before the fight in the airport, only to be shouted at by Hank for a few minutes and then relive it all with Hope for double the time. “I guess the ‘break-up’ happened somewhere amongst all of that. Not that we ever dated properly. She’s busy and seriously independent. I have too much time on my hands and actually like having conversations with people.”

“They sound like a match made in heaven,” Bucky interrupted as Steve recalled Scott’s humorous account of the phone call, “And Peggy?” He lowered his voice more, looked sympathetic in an instant as if the amusement from a second before had never existed. Steve looked away to find that they had reached a balcony at the back of the palace. It was dark and quiet, the way Bucky had mostly experienced Wakanda, sleeping through the busy days and patrolling through the silent twilight.

“She’s gone,” he said shortly, much less inclined to relive that particular phone call. Not even a call, but a text, interrupting an already fraying conversation and the announcement of the accords. Steve still believed that he would never carry a weight heavier than the feeling of that coffin on his shoulder.

“Some people never move on,” Bucky replied evenly, “Not that it’s the healthy thing to do, Steve, but you saw her, after that long under the ice, she was still there.”

“Not like before,” Steve ignored the unsteadiness in his tone, “It wasn’t the Peggy I knew. She wasn’t the same.”

“She was seventy years older,” Bucky argued without heat behind his words, “Of course she was different. That doesn’t mean you have to get over her any faster.”

“What is there to get over?” Steve asked suddenly, turning around to face him, “We never got the chance to talk about anything important? I couldn’t tell you if she had plans to have children or to get married. I don’t even know what she liked to do at the weekends – because we never got to do that, okay?” He turned away again, clenching his hands into fists so they wouldn’t shake at his sides. Bucky’s hand rested on his shoulder lightly, sending the waiting moisture trailing down his cheeks

“You were in love,” Buck sounded wistful, as if he’d never felt the same, “That’s what you needed to get over.”

“Needed?” Steve asked slowly and then, when Bucky seemed unsure, “Past tense.”

“You seemed to be on the way to getting over it, at least,” he replied eventually, “And Scott’s not too bad. A little less headstrong and fierce maybe.” Steve smiled and then laughed silently under his breath. He wondered if Peggy and Scott would have got on or even seen eye to eye on anything. 

“What would she think of the accords?”

“I think she’d protest against the treatment of people who break them,” Bucky replied instantly, without hesitating, “I think she’d always have had a problem with the way Ross is running his regime.”

“And Scott?” Steve didn’t like the desperation he could hear in his own words, shaking off the feeling that Peggy’s blessing was needed before he did anything with little success. Bucky exhaled in what sounded like a humourless laugh and patted his shoulder again, hand lingering to press against the bone for a moment longer.

“She valued bravery,” he replied simply at first and then, as if he hadn’t said enough in those three words, “Peggy Carter was surrounded by egotistical, arrogant and sexist men for most of her career, as far as I know. She’d be happy to know you didn’t find that sort of thing attractive.” There was a hint of humour that earned Bucky another light punch on the shoulder.

“You’re doing the right thing,” Bucky began to speak again, his eyes now firmly fixed on the horizon. Steve registered his change of demeanour from the corner of his eye; a sure indicator that a personal opinion was coming. “Just keep looking after him, alright? I – the rest of us – don’t want to smother him, you know? But, you’re good for him.”

“I like him,” Steve corrected, the whispered doubt that had been plaguing his head finally surfacing. He emphasised ‘like’ in that high school way, the ‘like like’ way that really means a crush without suffering the embarrassment of saying something so childish. “It feels selfish.”

“You’re Captain America,” Bucky reminded him with a smirk, “Selfish isn’t in the dictionary according to-”

“Captain America is a character,” Steve interrupted tiredly. He’d heard the ‘symbol of America’ bullshit too many times. “He doesn’t exist; he’s a costume and a crisis.”

“Fine.” Bucky turned away from the sky and the black shadow of the looming plateau beyond Wakanda, barely visible against a background of midnight blue. “You’re Steve Rogers. You’ve never walked away from anything because you’re stubborn and foolish. You can’t rest until everything is right because if you tried to, that one imperfection would irritate you for weeks. You save people because you know how it feels to need saving, you rescue people because you used to need rescuing.”

“I think Tony would be quick to disagree with that,” Steve replied slowly. Bucky’s face scrunched up distastefully at the mention of Stark but he nodded his head, playing along with Steve’s suddenly defeatist attitude.

“Stark doesn’t hate you,” he reminded his friend, albeit a tad reluctantly, “He betrayed your trust and now he feels guilty. Most of the stuff that man says is impulsive, Stevie, it’s thoughtless and oblivious. He knows that – hell, you probably do too.”

“I’m going to have to talk to him first,” Steve conceded wearily, “He never backs down from a fight.” Bucky seemed to be on the verge of comparing the two men and pointing out their myriad of similarities when a door at the other end of the hall opened loudly.

Tony, resembling the Tony that would emerge from his workshop after two days of radio silence, spent a minute taking in the scene of the two men before clearing his throat with painstaking awkwardness.

“Steve,” he greeted stiffly, “We have a problem.”

Steve turned grimly and shook the last shreds of conversation from his head. There was a time and a place for self-pity that was far less important than dealing with problems. However, the undeniable thought that immediately sprung to mind didn’t exactly help with this philosophy.

Add it to the list.   
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates have really slowed down, I apologise! I’m hoping to get back into uploading when I have less work to do and when I’m back to a usual routine. I tend to find motivation in writing when I can use I to as a break from everything else, so we'll see how that goes :)
> 
> I always appreciate feedback and comments and I’ll try to update ASAP :p


	15. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for Hi_Tired_Im_Dad for reminding me that this story still existed and that I still love writing it even though I had left it for so long and also for unintentionally making my day :)

It hadn’t been a bad idea.

The problem is, ‘not bad’ ideas aren’t always good.

Tony had learnt this on several occasions. Most, like this one, were punctuated by an expression that could only fit on Steve Roger’s long suffering face.

It wasn’t Captain America who scraped a hand across his forehead and removed it to reveal a weary look that wouldn’t sit right on the American hero’s unwavering face. Captain America’s face didn’t crease like that, didn’t wrinkle at the edges with thought. The mighty Captain America didn’t need to think, didn’t need to worry. Steve Rogers did enough of that for the both of them.

“So, let me get this straight,” Steve finally broke the silence between them. The tension had leaked from the room as if often had done in the past when the two of them had bigger things to focus on than a clash of their ever conflicting personalities. “You were monitoring the bunker for whatever reason-”

“You call it paranoia, I call it covering all bases,” Tony interjected with a roll of his eyes and long suffering sigh to match. “I think we can both agree it’s a good job I’m a security freak just this once.”

“Agree to disagree,” Steve muttered under his breath, his face lifting for a moment before settling back into that uncomfortably thoughtful grimace, “How certain are you?” He met Tony’s eyes for the first time and held his steady gaze searchingly. Tony tapped away at the screen in front of him for a moment, looking vacantly around the control room.

“It’s a desert out there, Steve,” he replied tiredly, imploring the other man to agree, just this once, “A cold, icy desert. And there’s a heat signature slap bang in the middle of all that.”

“The entire building was set on fire,” Bucky’s voice startled the two of them. Tony shot a half-hearted glare at the shadow as it entered the room on eerily silent feet. Because even living with two assassins for a little while had never got him used to the distinct lack of footsteps. “It could be a scrap of metal that’s held the heat for a little while longer than the rest.” 

“Yes, Barnes.” Tony couldn’t help but turn the snark dial up slightly, “Metal that conducts heat from weeks ago. Metal that magically reheats itself after days of being as cold and dead as the landscape around it.” Steve opened his mouth, evidently ready to agree with his wartime friend when he stopped and shuffled his feet with a level of doubt Tony wasn’t so used to witnessing.

“Reheats itself?” Bucky asked, ignoring the jibe breezily and taking a seat on the nearby table. He, unlike Steve, was happy to fix Tony in an almost permanent headlock of a stare, unblinking and coolly analytical.

“Yep,” Tony replied, popping the ‘p’ sound with pursed lips, “Riddle me this, Barnes: that shell of a building has been cold and empty for the last two weeks. Today, heat signature. Just a blip, just for a minute. But it was there.”

“It could be a fault with the detector,” Steve reasoned, although the gentleness in his tone implied he wasn’t trying to offend Stark’s technology. That didn’t stop the man from snorting derisively and complaining under his breath.

“How happy are we to pass up a potential mission by assuming it’s a blip?” Tony returned eventually. Steve shrugged his shoulders. He’d lost the fight of a leader, Tony had noticed. This observation had made him oddly unhappy, misguided maybe. There was no denying that he liked to have Steve watching their backs in a battle and the guidance of his instruction had never been passed up on the battlefield. But he’d changed.

Funny how prison can change a man without him ever setting foot in one. Steve had suffered his own sort of imprisonment, in many ways. And seeing Scott was punishment enough. Both Tony and Bucky knew that; they saw it in the uncertain silence left between Tony’s question and Steve’s answer.

“We’re not going in blind,” Steve spoke up, his speech almost rehearsed as if he’d been preparing for their first pre-mission talk for a while. “I’m not willing to risk any member of this team anymore. Not when we’ve got the world on our backs.”

“In and out,” Tony promised, finally dropping the arrogance and certainty from his tone, “I need this, Steve. That man, in the bunker, he knew something.” There was an unsaid ‘about me’ that everyone in the room heard as if the words had been spoken aloud. Steve sighed under his breath but, upon raising his eyes, smiled sadly. Tony returned the expression shortly, the edges of his mouth flashing up and down in an instant.

That was the difference between the two of them, he supposed. The melancholy smile of an aged and wise man against the mistrusting, aching fakery of a man with everything to lose.

Steve’s expressions held experience behind them and a quality that spoke volumes of his double life between centuries. He’d seen it all and called on every experience from every year of his life in that single smile. It was the sympathetic expression of a man who had lost it all, almost twice. It was the look he’d give someone who was risking the same loss.

Tony’s disappeared in seconds. There was a fragility to it, as if it lasted as long as the hairline fracture in his façade held up before being filled in from the inside. He’d wasted a good deal of time speculating about the bunker. He’d say wasted because there was nothing to speculate. They’d had mere seconds to gauge the motives of the odd man who resided there and no time at all to really explore the shell of a building. It was a carcass really, covered over time by the falling snow and left to rot and decay below the earth. It had been stripped of its history and intelligence, leaving nothing but a hull, a whisper of history and a single scrap of information that someone wanted Tony to see.

“I can’t risk this opportunity,” Tony said finally, his voice becoming a whisper as he focused his attention on Steve.

“I know,” Steve replied at a similar volume. It was a simple reply and Tony turned his head away, suddenly overcome by a wave of anger that had only surfaced to punch away a blinding stab of pain.

“I’ll leave in the morning,” he spoke professionally, detaching himself from the man who sounded regretful that he couldn’t leave his own team without a leader. “I can get there in the suit, if I recharge in Siberia for a little while. And if I don’t come back, well, I expect I’ll at least make the evening news.”

“Tony,” Steve interrupted, his tone hinting at frustration.

“I get it Steve,” the other man couldn’t help but sound bitter, “You’re doing for your team what I’ve failed to do for mine but-”

“We’re leaving tomorrow morning,” Steve interrupted again, “A team of us.”

“Wakanda is the safest place to hide,” Tony wheeled around on his heels, “To move them all would be suicide.”

“Not to hide,” Steve replied pressingly, “We’ll come with you.”

“That doesn’t sound any less like potential suicide,” Tony returned, suddenly conflicted.

“Clint needs a chance to get out,” Steve replied simply, “He’s getting agitated. And Sam’s been wanting to get the suit out for at least a week.”

“And you?”

Steve exhaled slowly and held his hands out in front of him honestly.

“There are only so many punching bags to break before the satisfaction starts to diminish,” he replied cryptically. Tony nodded slowly, understanding every word hidden beneath his statement as if he’d said it himself.

“If he’s putting up a fight, we can toss a coin,” he replied steadily, holding Steve’s gaze once more. He looked away only when Bucky pushed himself up from the table and rubbed his remaining hand against his metal arm.

“I can prepare now,” he addressed Tony, “That is, if you want me there.” Tony tilted his head sideways and flashed a genuine quirked smile in the soldier’s direction and nodded.

“I wouldn’t say no,” he replied and Bucky left the room at that, seemingly satisfied.

Steve had returned to his usual pattern of pacing up and down the control room. Tony watched him as casually as possible from the front screen. It only took a second to discern the reasoning behind his restlessness and even Tony, with the discretion of a baby elephant, approached the subject cautiously.

“Scott,” he stated softly, not quite phrasing it as a question. Steve’s raised foot hovered in the air for a moment before pressing more firmly into the floor and continuing the pattern. “You’re not thinking about-” 

“Or course not,” Steve replied frustratedly. Tony wondered for a moment how the super soldier had completed that question in his own head. Not thinking about leaving him? Not thinking about bringing him with them? Not thinking about telling a lie? Not thinking about the consequences? Not thinking at all?

“There’s no way he’s coming,” Steve answered Tony’s confusion and the latter nodded, glad to be on the same page. “That doesn’t make this any easier.”

“You like him,” Tony again chose to state a fact rather than ask the question although this didn’t stop Steve from shrugging his shoulder as if he’d been questioned. Again, Tony smiled slightly. The serum had amplified everything about Steve, including his inability to tell a lie. Damn perfect DNA. Too innocent to tell a lie. Or too good a man to live with the consequences.

“He’s only just started to trust again,” Steve continued carefully. Scott was a subject that involved toeing the line around Tony. They weren’t friends. They were just working together. It didn’t need to get personal.

“He’s not a kid,” Tony retorted firmly, pushing the readily appearing image of Peter Parker in all his high school glory straight to the back of his mind. The occupational paranoia had covered all that, of course. The kid had just won some local science fair competition. Nothing groundbreaking, nothing to draw attention to the boy or his spidery weekend antics. He was still using the suit, much to Tony’s displeasure, but he was very literally powerless to stop that from happening. Ross would have got him if he wanted him, Tony had decided after a couple of sleepless nights spent largely cursing the boy for his naivety. No, Peter was bait and Tony was the not so gormless fish that wasn’t about to swim straight into the hook.

“We – he is making progress,” Steve replied again, as weary as before, “I can’t leave him by himself.” Tony threw his hands around the room not unkindly and tried to instil some reassurance in him.

“He’s got an entire hidden country willing to hide him,” he implored carefully. “I need you on this one, Steve. I don’t need Cap or the star spangled uniform. But I need you there.”

“What if it’s something you don’t want to know?” Steve asked quietly. Tony stilled for a moment and thought it over, chewing the inside of his mouth thoughtfully.

“Then I want you there to stop me from doing something stupid,” he settled on eventually. “You know me best, out of everyone here. You or Clint, at least. And firstly, I don’t trust that reckless man not to go running off the second he can just to find Ross. And secondly, he’s a loose cannon and lacks the calming influence of a ninety year old grandpa.” Steve laughed under his breath reluctantly and shook his head, his eyes raised to the ceiling.

“Do you think he’d try?” he asked suddenly, panic briefly darting across his wandering eyes.

“No,” Tony replied, far too quickly. Steve raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Come on, Cap. They’re vengeful but they haven’t lost their judgement. Clint will get his revenge one day, and he knows that. He wouldn’t jeopardise a mission like this. Not after the Raft, not after that all went to shit.”

“He blames himself,” Steve muttered, his eyes flashing again. Tony laughed humourlessly.

“Don’t we all blame ourselves?” Silence fell across them again. “Why’d you ask if he’d try it anyway?”

“Because I’m not sure if I trust myself to leave Wakanda for the same reason,” Steve replied sadly. He flashed a smile that looked all too familiar to Tony and moved to the door, excusing himself gingerly.

“We will get him,” Tony promised his retreating back. “We’ll make him regret all of this.” Steve turned his head slightly so that only half was visible. Tony saw the concern and the unfiltered exhaustion on his friend’s face in the moment before he spoke.

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

* * *

It wasn’t his fault, it really wasn’t.

He hadn’t wanted any of it, hadn’t reacted to it when it was forced on him.

But was the other man feeling guilty? Scott doubted it, as he leant his forehead against the glass door that led to a small balcony, the setting sun dripping light across the Wakandan horizon. The cool material grew foggy from the perspiration that beaded across his still too pale skin and he could almost feel the continual tremors that ran through every bone in his body. He doubted the other man felt like that; so mentally sick at the idea that his body was simulating a real fever. Another cloud spread across the glass as Scott exhaled sharply through his mouth, leaving a white fog behind.

Steve poked his head around the door, eyes wandering first to the empty bed and then following the small trail of rumpled, discarded blankets to the window. From behind, Scott would have looked peaceful, were it not for the tightly clenched muscles that arched his shoulders into a knot across his back. Steve yearned to rest his own hand against the bare skin that peeked out from beneath the collar of the loose shirt that hung from Scott’s frame. He longed to do what he could to ease the pain from the hunched figure before him, but the thought of provoking any adverse reaction terrified him. He couldn’t bear to see Scott look at him with the same fear he’d seen reflected back at him in the Raft. He couldn’t bear to have that stare directed at his own face.

“How are you doing?” He broke his silent vigil with the question that seemed to begin every conversation with Scott. It was like a script that they had to follow before the improvisation began, and they’d practised so frequently that Steve could predict the response perfectly. First, an impossible increase in tension for a fleeting moment, the silence of Scott’s mind interrupted in a jarring second. Then, like always, familiarity swept across Scott in a wave. He glanced over his shoulder, just to be sure, and then shrugged as he always did, as if no answer to such a question would do it justice.

“It’s all a little exotic for me,” Scott mused thoughtfully, directing his eyes towards the burning gradient of the sky, “Not that I’m complaining; there are worse places to be hiding out.” Steve could hear the rawness in his rough voice, the weight of the words, the implication of what he was missing. Home. Cassie. How things used to be.

It was enough for Steve to invite himself in, pausing to return a blanket to the base of the bed and then joining Scott at the window. He glanced across at the other man, his arm raised slightly in silent question. Scott nodded reassuringly, leaning into the touch of Steve’s hand around his shoulder, the strain of holding everything together ebbing away. His head found Steve’s shoulder and he held it there, his eyes still following the line of the horizon strictly.

Even in the moments of peace, Scott’s mind ran away with itself over and over. He felt the view slip away from him and the sounds of leaking water and a swinging light above him returned. The dusty floor still felt hard and uncomfortable as it lay its phantom grip down his side and legs. His eyes had slipped closed without trying and the eyelids that concealed them flinched and jolted at the tingling sensation of pain in his remaining wounds. Steve’s hand tightened around his shoulder and the warmth drew Scott back rapidly, sending his head careening further into Steve’s chest, muffling the sounds that weren’t really there.

“You’re alright,” Scott felt the vibrations of the words tremble through his skull, Steve’s voice barely a murmur, “They’ll never get you back there.” The promise felt empty every time Scott heard it, although this didn’t stop the man from clinging desperately to the thought. He knew Ross had escaped, he knew the government were still firmly against them. Logically, it was only a matter of time before the fugitive avengers ran out of safe countries to hide in.

“I’d do anything to go home,” he whispered under his breath, so quietly that he thought Steve may have missed it altogether.

“Me too,” came the reply eventually, although it wasn’t quite clear what Steve considered home. New York, of course, but Scott wondered which century. Maybe Cap had seen enough of modern day America that he would rather take the war and everything that it entailed. A simpler time, Scott had heard from the few veterans he had met in his life, where the difference between life and death was a matter of reflexes; point, shoot and hope the other guy doesn’t beat you to it. It was a bleak life but at least it was devoid of complexity and choice.

“Do you trust me?” Steve was speaking again, his tone hesitant and his fingers rubbing nervous circles across Scott’s shoulder blades. The latter took a second to think, although he didn’t need the time, and nodded into Steve’s chest, sending his hair flying in every direction once more.

Steve spun him on his heels so the two were face to face and embraced him as he always did, his arms encircling Scott’s tightly, head resting atop head. But then, tentatively and not without hesitation, Steve pressed his lips against the tangled mess of hair beneath him, leaving a cautious kiss to nestle between the ruffled mass. Scott’s shoulders tensed at first before melting away once more, breathing a little faster but not out of fear or panic, but rather from the surprise of Captain America looking down through the falling strands of his hair with a concerned look of care across his face. Yes, the Captain America.

“Is that okay?” Steve’s question was a breath of air across Scott’s face as the other man nodded carefully. He raised his hands from his sides, pressing them softly against the fabric that hugged Steve’s chest tightly and leaning his forehead against the accelerated beating of the super soldier’s heart. He hid a small smile at the realisation that even Captain America got nervous about some things.

“Bucky will never let me hear the end of this,” Steve continued to mutter under his breath, his face illuminating with a fond smile as their heads remained close together. “The old punk has been calling this one since I met you.” Scott glanced up at this and the corners of his mouth turned up in a rare, fully fledged smile.

“And the others?” he asked curiously.

“Tony will be snarky as usual. Clint, indifferent.” Steve paused to think for a moment. “Wanda will definitely want the details. Sam will encourage Bucky until he’s insufferable.” Scott exhaled a small laugh, his forehead pressing against Steve’s chest once more. Steve’s arms remained around his slowly strengthening frame for an indeterminable length of time. 

Scott spent it blind to the world, his senses numbed to everything beyond the man in front of him. He felt the rise and fall of his chest. He heard him breathe steadily. He watched his arms move up and down as his fingers trailed the skin beneath them.

Steve watched Scott’s head below his own, a mess of feelings tumbling into the other man’s hair. He held on for as long as he could because they were there together, in a tangled mess but together all the same. He could be there to keep Scott safe. He was there to stop him from getting trapped in his own head. But when he wasn’t? The overwhelming emotion was one of regret.

He was going to regret tomorrow.

He was going to regret the lie.

He was going to regret the consequences.

But he couldn’t regret that kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....
> 
> It’s been a while.
> 
> If I’m honest, things haven’t been great. Everything has got on top of me a bit on the real life side of thing and something had to slide. Unfortunately that thing was my update schedule for everything I’ve been writing. I have been writing bits and pieces for other fandoms but nothing worth publishing and so these stories have really taken the hit.
> 
> I’m sorry for the lack of communication but I didn’t want to go into everything too much. It’s nothing terrible but more a sum of bad things becoming one massively irritating stressful thing, if that makes sense.
> 
> As I said at the start of the chapter, this exists because of one person and a very timely comment that I recieved today (or yesterday now because I am a night owl writer). I had a shitty day and the comment I got today was so nice to see and it really got me missing this book and the writing process so I got myself to work on it and that turned into an entire chapter. I apologise in advance for any continuity issues. I read the last couple of chapters but it’s too long to read the entire thing so I may have contradicted myself in places, sorry!
> 
> Apart from that, if anyone wants to have a cry with me about Doctor Who or share opinions of this year's Strictly contestants or Bake Off then let me know :)
> 
> I don’t know if anyone else is still here but as long as I’ve got one person looking forward to these updates they’ll come eventually. Thank you to anyone else who is still here - hi, I’ve not disappeared, sorry this took so long :)
> 
> And I will be back hopefully soon?? <3


	16. Stowaway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is incredibly unedited and not particularly proof-read, I apologise in advance.

Steve paused in the familiar hallway surrounding Scott’s room. He knew every inch of that floor, noticed every new leaf that fell from the potted plant in the corner beside the window, had memorised every intricacy of the view until he knew it almost as well as Scott did. He knew all of this because of these moments. It was the countless times he had hesitated at the door which left him with a mental recreation of the narrow hallway, with its sun-soaked floorboards at dawn and cool white light when the moon was full.

And in the same way that he liked every observation he’d made of that narrow space between self-doubt and certainty, he was growing to despise every inch of the plan that had led to his latest tightrope walk of indecision. One half of his brain (the rational, sensible side) had been vocal throughout the night, leaving him with marginally darker shadows beneath his eyes, although he doubted one more sleepless night would make a significant difference. The other, more reckless side was, as it usually did, supporting Tony’s crackpot outline of a plan despite the fact that it as as rough as the unfinished sketches in Steve’s sketchbook. Unfortunately, Steve had developed a habit for ignoring the logical decisions recently, largely due to a series of what he presumed would be logical decisions landing them in Wakanda as fugitives. Yes, it was fair to say that Steve’s mind was very much at war to himself.

Not dissimilarly, his hand seemed at war with itself as he reached for Scott’s door handle and then didn’t, repeating this ritual several times in a few minutes. He eventually screwed his eyes closed briefly, shook his head and knocked on the wood with some degree of confidence. After all, the irrational side of his brain mocked, he was Captain America; if the Nazis didn’t scare him, the idea of knocking on a door shouldn’t. Then again, Steve Rogers had always been terrified of every enemy in the war so this double life was probably just throwing up more conflicts for the soldier.

He shook this realisation off of his face as the door opened to a surprisingly awake and cheerful Scott Lang. He also tried to shake the look of surprise as it crept across his face, not wanting to offend the other man although the quirked smile on his face suggested to Steve that he had been caught already.

“Morning, Cap,” Scott let him in before correcting himself almost instantly, “Steve.” This had become a habit of Scott’s, to the point where Clint, when he was around, had started calling him Cap-Steve, an activity that set him off grinning like a small child. Steve never stayed annoyed for long though as it also seemed to put a smile on Scott’s face, a sight that the other man was far too taken up by to even roll his eyes at Clint. This was, on reflection, definitely something that Clint had noticed and was likely taking advantage of. 

“Sleep well?” Steve asked, circling the room in a nervous habit of his and depositing items that had landed on the floor in the correct places. He glanced back to find Scott watching him with a cryptic expression that Steve eventually decrypted as amused. But there was something else behind it, he thought.

“Trying to diagnose the reason for my early morning?” he replied with another smile. Steve stood up from his crouched position on the floor and returned his expression sheepishly. Scott stepped forwards in a show of confidence and stood in front of him, still wearing a hint of that cryptic expression.

“Something on your mind?” Scott spoke up again, standing close enough to Steve for his breath to reach the other man’s skin as he spoke. Steve tried not to look taken aback for a second time as his intended question was stolen from the air in front of him. He nodded almost dumbly and fixed a weak smile on his face. Scott raised his eyebrows gently and left a pause for Steve to speak. It was something that Steve had done a thousand times for him and, with that thought, he got to the point.

“Something came up yesterday,” he still found himself skirting around the subject but about as gingerly as a bull in a china shop, “And it’s not really something we can deal with from here.” Scott nodded slowly, still not talking but watching Steve steadily as if to ask him to continue.

“We’re going to have to go away for a couple of days,” Steve glanced away briefly, only to find his eyes desperately seeking out Scott’s once more, watching for his reaction. Scott had turned away, standing beside the floor to ceiling window, his shoulders seeming a little tense. Steve traced the tension in his arms, noticing how his muscles were returning with the training he had been doing in his spare time. 

“Be careful,” Scott spoke up eventually, glancing back over his shoulder at Steve with an unfiltered expression of concern. Steve ignored the doubt in his head that there was still something else there behind his eyes, an enigma of an idea. He instead focused on Scott, stood in front of him once more, an unusually protective look on his face as he tentatively embraced Steve. Steve rested his head atop Scott’s, taking the moment away from his watchful eyes to look surprised once more at the fact that Scott had been the one to make a move for the first time since they had arrived in Wakanda. He inhaled the vague scent of something floral in the mess of hair brushing against his chin and held Scott tighter than he usually did.

“What’s all this?” Scott asked, the sound vibrating through Steve’s chest, “You’re acting like you think something’s going to happen.” There was a light suspicion behind his words but he punctuated his accusation with a soft laugh and Steve loosened his grip reluctantly, failing to also calm his heart.

“Nothing will happen, I promise.” Scott chuckled again at that and looked down at his hands, interlacing his fingers together thoughtfully.

“I used to tell Cassie that when I was doing jobs for Hank Pym,” he glanced up again, a melancholy but nostalgic glaze coating his eyes. “I stopped after the first couple of missions because I realised that people hold onto those sorts of promises like a lifeline.”

“Cassie’s a kid, of course you’d tell her that,” Steve murmured in reply, one hand resting on Scott’s arm. “I mean it, Scott. We’ll be back by tomorrow night.” Scott shook his head again, still holding Steve’s gaze steadily.

“Don’t wanna hear it, Cap,” he returned eventually, a genuine, albeit sad smile on his face. “I’ll see you when I see you.” Steve nodded slowly after some thought and stepped back, getting to the door all too quickly.

“See you soon.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Scott replied, regaining that curious spark in his eyes, “In fact, don’t do anything that anyone in the team would do, because they are all reckless fools and following their example will only end badly.” Steve laughed softly again, giving a quick salute and closing the door behind him, an uncharacteristic, wide smile settling across his face. He grinned to himself for a moment longer and then set off for the hangar, his face steeled in preparation for the mission but his mind playing Scott’s words over in his head on repeat. It was the first time that Scott had referred to them all as a team, after all.

* * *

“Cap,” Tony greeted from the cockpit of the plane. He was leaning one arm on the low ceiling and hovering over Bucky’s shoulder, something the other soldier seemed vaguely irritated by. “Barnes is just double-checking my ability to set the correct path to the bunker.” There was a lightness to Tony’s voice which had only ever been a sure sign of reciprocated annoyance.

“And Stark is triple-checking my ability to double-check his,” Bucky supplied helpfully from the pilot’s seat. Steve wondered briefly if anyone was yet to stake a claim on the role of pilot, secretly hoping that argument had occurred out of his earshot. 

“Play nicely, both of you,” he replied to the two of them evenly, still unable to completely erase his happier mood, “We are meant to all be on the same team now, remember.” Bucky glanced over his shoulder and immediately started to smirk, making eye contact with Tony and glancing back at Steve pointedly. Stark, either to his credit or out of genuine ignorance, barely bat an eyelid at the other man which sent Bucky off rolling his eyes.

“I take it your talk with old Scotty went well,” Bucky eventually commented, a gleeful underline lining his innocent observation. Tony’s eyes drifted from the screen he was watching Barnes input coordinates to and followed Steve’s path around the room as he moved their equipment into its place. Bucky was the only person who had managed to keep the way he talked about Scott exactly the same since the incident on the Raft. Everyone else tried not to seem like they were treading on eggshells around the topic although this was an impossible task when the truth was, they were most definitely treading on said eggshells.

“You told him,” Tony sounded slightly impressed but also slightly unsurprised, “He must have taken it well.” Bucky snorted as if this was a foregone conclusion and turned fully in his seat, still smirking to himself.

“Very well indeed,” he repeated as Steve rolled his eyes, “You kiss him yet, Stevie?” Tony turned away with a poorly muffled snort of his own and seemed determined to appear busy as Bucky enjoyed watching Steve pointedly ignore him.

“When are we setting off?” Clint’s voice soured Bucky’s expression as he realised his fun was likely over once more but the archer stopped at the front of the plane and glanced over at Steve before looking at Bucky curiously. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No-” Steve replied quickly, the corner of his mouth turning up reluctantly at Bucky’s expression. “We should be ready soon. Buck is just-”

“Finding out when Scotty and Stevie are announcing the wedding,” Bucky interjected swiftly, prompting Clint to laugh to himself as he headed back out to retrieve another box of equipment. Steve opened his mouth to retort but gave up swiftly and rubbed one hand over his forehead.

“Just make sure the coordinates are set and ready,” he told Bucky firmly. It was Tony’s turn to smirk at the other soldier with some look of accomplishment crossing his face.

 

“Don’t worry, Cap,” Stark replied, “I’ll check them when he’s finished.” Another smile crossed Steve’s face and, when he looked over at Tony, he saw the same expression reflected back. Tony’s eyes melted away into something more raw than Steve was used to, a look that seemed to say everything at once; there was another apology, a sense of relief, a sign of camaraderie. He returned it all with a nod, acknowledging the past and at least trying to promise something. It wasn’t the promise he’d taken back from Scott, it was nothing more than a vow to try. He’d done a lot of thinking in their time in Wakanda, coming to the conclusion that it wasn’t always possible to promise something and cover all bases, but he could try. That was all Steve Rogers had ever done, all Captain America was designed to do. He’d try and Tony would too.

* * *

Satisfied that Tony and Bucky could survive being left alone for the time being, Steve joined Sam and Clint at the opening to the hangar, nodding a greeting at the former.

“Morning, Steve.” Sam had been more vacant than the rest of them for a few weeks, despite the fact that he was probably around more than Clint was. Steve had asked him about it, trying to shake the feeling that the team was falling apart in front of him, and he’d said that it was boredom. Despite being critical at the time, Steve was surprised at the difference having an aim had made to his friend, seeing a light in his eyes and a purpose behind his stride.

“What have we got?” Sam asked as they walked to the plane together. Clint followed closely behind, walking effortlessly on silent feet as he tightened his bowstring intuitively. Of all of them, Steve had seen the least of Clint, relying mostly on regular reports from Bucky that he had left in the middle of the night and would likely return in a couple of days. It was a bit of a mystery, where he went on these trips, but Buck had assured Steve that Clint never left the protective border of Wakanda. T’Challa had backed up this claim, telling Steve on one occasion that Clint had spent time with one of the tribes that had set up beyond the tree line of the main city. The king himself had been a useful ally, even supporting Tony’s plan to travel to Siberia despite being unable to offer his own services to help.

“Foreign heat signature in a building that should have gone cold several weeks ago,” Steve answered as they boarded the plane. He glanced back for a moment, realising that it was wishful thinking to expect Scott to turn up and see them off, despite the cheerful mood he had been in that morning. Steve couldn’t imagine being left out of a team he’d been so used to being part of for a long time and knew that he too would not want to watch them fly away without him. He spun back to face the rest of the plane’s crew, missing the steady presence of Wanda and the slight unpredictability of her powers but that too had been discussed with T’Challa.

“Shuri is making excellent progress with the help of Wanda,” he had told the captain as they discussed the mission the previous night, “Unless you are in desperate need of another pair of hands, I was hoping she would stay here to help.” As Wanda’s own attempts to move on from the Raft, she had been helping the king’s sister to research her powers. They were developing a way to harness her powers in different ways, something that Steve did not understand and also did not try to. The way he saw it was clear; Wanda was happier than she had been for some time and he wasn’t about to drag her off on some mission to the barren desert of Siberia just to undo the progress she’d already made. Given everything that had happened, it was difficult to remember that she was so young and had been given almost no chance to grow up normally. And whilst Steve did not miss his own days growing up on the streets of Brooklyn, the experiences he’d had generally avoiding narrow alleyways and bullies had served as some form of character building.

“Are we expecting the same guy you and Tony saw before?” Sam asked, back in the cockpit of the plane. Steve nodded slowly, his best guess suggesting that it was likely and noticed with a wry grin that Clint had taken up the position of pilot without drawing too much attention to the fact. Bucky noticed a moment later and scowled for a moment, turning away to check his guns for ammunition, despite the fact that he had definitely already done that once. Tony seemed unbothered and continued to work on the plan with a digital blueprint of the bunker. It was a vague plan of the building, taken largely from footage that FRIDAY had filmed during their last visit. And, given the activity of this heat signature, Steve had his suspicions that the layout could have changed by the time they got there.

“In and out, right Cap?” Tony looked up briefly, seeming to be placing the responsibility of leader on Steve’s shoulders. It made sense, given Tony’s potentially personal attachment to the mission and Steve didn’t like to leave him with all of the responsibility when he was still central to the stranger’s plan.

“In and out,” Cap repeated for the team, “This person may have or claim to have information we are interested in but if he’s just luring us into a trap we need to stay aware and be prepared to act quickly.”

“Let’s get home in time for tea tomorrow,” Bucky chimed in, having set his gun aside, “Friday’s are usually good for food.” Sam shook his head as he stood off to one side and fiddled with his suit, a reluctant smile crossing his face.

“It may be a late supper,” Tony reminded him, also suppressing a laugh, “But I’m sure Birdbrain will do his best, given that he’s appointed himself as pilot.” He glanced over at Steve briefly, mirroring Bucky’s actions as both of them seemed to ask the question.

“Clint flies,” Steve told the two of them firmly, “Are we ready?”

“Wheels up,” Clint replied with a nod. A silence crossed the group as the plane’s engines started up and the floor beneath them reverberated. There was an undeniable trepidation to leaving the same bubble of safety that they had been surrounded by for a couple of months. Steve didn’t like leaving Scott so much once they were in the air, already wondering if the other man had begun his routine for the day; taking a run and spending time back in the gym.

Clint communicated with people on the ground, manoeuvring the plane through an open portion of the boundary and heading off in the direction of Siberia. The plane set off as the last peach scars in the sky faded, leaving Wakanda in the daytime.

Back on the ground, the country wasn’t just missing a plane and five fugitives. 

The gym was deserted and no one was running in the early morning sun. Down in the weapons room, one more suit was missing from its usual place. Because the truth was, Steve’s plane was carrying a stowaway.

Back on the ground, the country was missing a plane, one more fugitive than it should be and the Ant-Man suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s this? A not quite Christmas miracle?
> 
> So, I’m back again with another couple chapter. I’m sorry for the false hope that eight week waits for chapters were a one off because it turns out that I did it again, but here we are.
> 
> Like before, I’m sorry for any possible inconsistencies with everything, I hope you can still even remember what happened before and that all of this makes sense; I’m happy to clarify anything in the comment section of course.
> 
> And, as it’s the season, I hope anyone who celebrated anything in the last month had a good time and I wish you all a Happy New Year. I think everyone is hoping 2019 breaks the trend of years slowly getting a worse, I definitely am and I really want to get back on top of writing next year. My plan at the moment is to leave One in a Million until this is done (5-6 chapters probably??) and then I can decide to revisit that one or not in the future. I really want to get this story done; I’ve actually got a few chapters planned, plotwise, for the first time ever so hopefully that will help me get them out.
> 
> Anyway, it’s been a late night writing session for me, as per usual, so I won’t waffle on for too long. Thank you, as always, for your patience and general understanding. If I could I would update everyday just to read your lovely comments because they do make my day. And whatever happens with next year, I’ll be around when I can, writing and trying to finish this before 2020 :p


	17. Dreaming

As far as plans went, Scott’s was definitely missing a few important features. In fact, that was giving the spontaneous man too much credit; his ‘plan’ had only extended as far as reaching the plane before it took off so now he stood, still shrunk and out of sight, behind a box of equipment. He’d caught a glimpse of some of the other Avengers occasionally but the jet was mostly silent except for the odd comment from Clint about the flying conditions, the cloud cover and their ETA.

Now Scott was never one for overthinking a plan. He’d be lying if he claimed to not be addicted to the slight rush of adrenaline when his not so watertight plan started leaking at the edges. But even as the vibrations beneath his feet had signalled their take-off back in Wakanda, Scott would have happily bailed out and gone back to bed. This brief moment of regret had dulled considerably when Clint announced that they had crossed the border, replenishing some of the boyish excitement that could course through Scott’s veins in place of the tremors from his fraying nerves. In fact, the indecision had gone away entirely when the static of the radio was replaced with the Wakanda equivalent of air traffic control informing them that the border had been sealed behind them before wishing them a safe journey to Siberia. 

He’d heard a slightly snarky sound coming from one of the team members at this, placing it almost immediately with Tony and growing surprised with himself when he smiled at this connection. Whilst Stark wasn’t to blame for anything at all, Scott had found himself engaged in mental warfare over his constant trust and distrust of the man. They hadn’t spoken for a week or so however, and Scott was pleasantly taken aback at his newfound sense of forgiveness. Again, there wasn’t really anything to forgive but he couldn’t quite place the feeling or attach a different label so he settled for that.

They couldn’t have been travelling for an hour when things started to go pear-shaped. Scott could sense the leaks springing from whatever metaphorical bucket his poorly considered plan had been occupying. It was another crackle of static on the radio that alerted him to a change, replacing the monotony of the rhythmic engines and methodical comments from Clint met with the same companionable silence. This time, Scott moved further around the box of equipment, exposing himself just enough to watch the team as a voice came across the radio. Steve had sat up in his seat, shoulders tense and head alert at the change to the normal and ready to react appropriately. Clint continued to idly flip switches above his head so often but there was a disruption to the pattern; one hand hovered there in the air for a second before resuming its task as if nothing had happened. He was definitely interested though, Scott noted, his eyes flickered to the source of the sound occasionally as Bucky replied to the familiar voice from Wakanda.

“Is the Captain available?” It was T’Challa, the king. Scott had seen little of the ruler in his time in the hidden country, hearing far more than he ever saw of the illusive Black Panther. The man was, it seemed, as stealthy as the predator he took his name from and also, Scott suspected, knee deep in the responsibility of running a country in a world that was as divided as ever. Not much of the international news had reached Scott but the stories that did crop up at the dinners he chose to attend told only of unrest. There had been protests on the streets of New York, led by those who had been saved by the original Avengers all those years ago. But for every protest there was a cluster of support for Ross’s regime and for the Accords.

Upon hearing his name, Steve sat up, his back impossibly straighter than before. He sensed the same hint of concern in T’Challa’s voice as the rest of them did and fired a brief frown at Bucky and then at Tony, both of whom shrugged. He cleared his throat and announced his presence to the man on the other end of the radio. It was then that Scott noticed Steve’s lightly clenched fist, resting on his knee as if he hadn’t even noticed his fingers curling. 

“I don’t wish to alarm you, Captain,” T’Challa continued, maintaining his professionalism whilst at the same time sounding mildly sympathetic. Scott felt his stomach drop in a similar way to the flipping sensation he felt with adrenaline but attributed this sensation only to nerves. He’d expected his cover to be blown at some point although he was impressed that it had taken them a mere hour to deduce that Scott had somehow left the country.

“It appears that Scott has,” T’Challa paused briefly as if he was searching for a fitting word, “Disappeared.” There was another silence, longer this time and drawn out by Steve’s slow sigh. Scott moved further away from the cover of the box to gauge his reaction, surprised to see the man looking more resigned than surprised. Be shared another glance with Tony as if the two of them had maybe suspected something all along and stood up from his seat. Tony followed suit and they quickly walked over to the other side of the jet, passing precariously close to the hiding place that Scott fled back to as they approached. It was quiet everywhere on the plane now but Steve and Tony still moved away, giving themselves the illusion of privacy.

“You really think the little guy’s taken off?” Tony asked quietly, the frown across his brow suggesting he thought otherwise, “Doesn’t seem to fit with every impression I’d got from him.” Steve looked conflicted, shrugging his shoulder as he blew out another long puff of air through pursed lips and glanced around the jet thoughtfully. He seemed relatively unconcerned whilst Sam and Bucky had instinctively rested their hands on the nearest weapon as if Scott was already somewhere in danger. Scott in particular found the contrasting reactions puzzling. He tried to place Clint’s response in either camp but found the back of the archer’s head impossible to read.

“He seemed – distracted this morning,” Steve mused under his breath and Scott strained to hear from the floor. “I questioned it vaguely but let it go when he didn’t seem upset that we were all leaving for a few days. I guess I’d expected it to go badly so I took his positivity for granted.” Tony snorted again but, unlike before, this was a sort of kind disbelief as opposed to amusement.

“You don’t take anything for granted, Cap,” he replied swiftly before hesitating again. He pressed his lips together as if he couldn’t decide if his next sentence was a good idea or not. “Maybe he hasn’t gone far at all.” He left it enigmatic and brief, seeming reluctant to give Steve any sort of thought to latch onto, only to be later disappointed when it wasn’t true. The reminder that Scott was missing seemed to hit Steve for a second time and his face took on a pained expression as he looked away from Tony, happening to angle his head towards Scott almost perfectly. The latter shrunk further into the shadow behind the box but kept just in sight so he could see everything in front of him. The plan, having got him to this exact position, continued to be unhelpful as to what he would do next. There was a choice here, a branching road in which one path would send the entire team back to a Wakanda and leave Tony with a real reason to hate him and then there was the other path which would likely lead to problems with Steve but would at least get them all to Siberia. Scott’s dilemma came in knowing which outcome he would reluctantly prefer but not which path would get him there.

“How did I just leave him like that?” Steve’s admission brought Scott back down to Earth and he pushed his choice to one side, watching as Steve paced the small section of the plane that he could actually stand up in. Tony had his arms crossed, watching almost analytically. Across the room, Scott just caught sight of Bucky mirroring him almost exactly. The similarities between two of Steve’s most trusted allies was amusing to see in the flesh, especially having heard Bucky’s stories that always ended with him doing something stupid with the sole aim of pissing off Tony.

“Did you have another choice?” Tony returned Steve’s question with one of his own, eyebrow raised in challenge. “What else could you do, Steve? He might be fighting fit, technically speaking, but Scott has to clear himself before he goes out in the field.” Steve seemed to disagree with this and opened his mouth several times before arguing back.

“He wasn’t ready.” Tony seemed to suffer the same indecision as he formulated his own reply to this, looking increasingly frustrated that he was the one who had followed Steve to have this not o private conversation.

“Or maybe you weren’t,” he murmured eventually, dropping his gaze to avoid Steve’s searching eyes, “On paper, Scott has been physically ready for a couple of weeks, Steve. He passed all of Shuri’s assessments first time when he had to do them and he’s been training ever since he could. Call it a coping mechanism, call it whatever the hell you want: Scott’s been fighting to be ready for something for a long time.”

“It’s been three months,” Steve replied finally, his tone borderline monotonous as he seemed to detach himself from the events of three months before. Scott reeled slightly at that information, unaware that so much time had gone past. It was hard not to remember the number of weeks he’d missed seeing Cassie for their regular weekend day out. It was harder imagining every single day of those three months that she had spent, likely collecting stories from her week to tell him as they ate ice-cream in the park or played another round of crazy golf in their bid to learn the course exactly.

“Is that really long enough?” Steve asked again, losing all of the authority of Captain America and appealing only to the friend he had in Tony.

“Maybe he’s made it enough,” Tony replied fairly and Scott was again surprised at how much the inventor had picked up about him, “After some things, you set yourself deadlines and even if you haven’t properly met them when they come around, sometimes you jut have to act like you have.” This seemed to resonate with Steve because he nodded slowly and the creases in his forehead diminished. Scott found his fingers resting on the red triggers in his gloves as he considered the fork in the road and made a tentative choice. He returned to normal size almost silently, except for the sound of the box scraping across the floor slightly as his growing body moved it out of the way. Again, Steve almost seemed unsurprised at the sight of him, one corner of his mouth turning up reflexively in a smile as the helmet uncovered Scott’s face.

“Hey, Tic-Tac,” Sam spoke up from one corner when he seemed to grow bored of the silent stares everyone was exchanging. Scott raised a hand in greeting and waved sheepishly, swallowing a grin at the look of genuine disappointment on Bucky’s face because he hadn’t noticed the plane was carrying an extra passenger. Even Clint turned in his seat for a moment and smiled lopsidedly at Scott before returning to the controls. He seemed to have calmed down since the days when he would sit with Scott and stew in a quiet pool of guilt and helplessness. Scott was starting to wonder if there was something in the water in Wakanda, because everyone seemed to have mellowed considerably since they arrived there.

“Scott,” Steve spoke eventually, shaping the name slowly and with deliberation, his eyes taking in every inch of Scott’s suit. He could feel the analysis in the gaze, knowing that Steve was doing what he always did now, cataloguing injuries, searching for new ones with some new sense of paranoia that turning his back would be enough to send Scott back to the Raft, back to the bad days.

“Steve,” Scott replied, somehow maintaining an even tone despite the lump in his throat and the burning in his eyes, the tangled knot in his stomach and electrostatic buzzing igniting pinpricks in his fingertips. “I’m sorry, I had to-” he stopped, the lack of a plan making him unsure of what was so important that he chose to leave the safety of their hiding place behind. “I had to do something.”

“After I was pulled out of the ice,” Steve began, his voice unsure as Scott waited for there to be some cryptic response to his apology within his memory. “I set myself deadlines as well. First it was the small things; shave with an electric razor by the time I’d been awake for a week, talk to someone about something or other within the next few days. Then the list got longer and I’d be pushing myself to get somewhere I wasn’t quite ready to be yet. I’d run in Central Park before my head was on straight and ignore the feeling that everyone would see me and immediately know I wasn’t in my usual territory. I went back to Brooklyn and found every place I remembered from before the war, counting the number that weren’t recognisable anymore when I was still in a phase of trying to forget that part of me ever existed. The thing is, it didn’t make anything worse and I kept doing it because, honestly, I knew it was working even if it didn’t feel right at the time.” 

Scott smiled in return at this, he’d heard the sub-text clear as day. Steve understood it, knew why he had to be there, knew why there’d been some sort of deadline in Scott’s mind. Behind the memories of harder days, when the war was both days ago and also seventy years in the past, Steve was answering him.

Tony was still stood a few steps behind Cap and offered Scott a rare glimmer of a smile as he returned to the rest of the team. Bucky was looking at Steve with something wistful in his eyes, a memory of his own past maybe, and Sam nodded approvingly at Scott.

“You’re mad, you know?” Steve murmured eventually when he came over to rest his hands on Scott’s arms, convincing himself that the man was definitely there, definitely out of Wakanda and somehow still safe. 

“Completely,” Scott replied with an easy smile. He leant forward to rest his head against Steve’s chest briefly and moved back quickly. It was a fleeting action but he still caught a ghost of the smile on Steve’s face and registered the glow of warmth in his chest at the sight. He remembered three months all over again, no missing the light tremble in his spine at the thought of it but knowing that he had reacted more severely to the memory of the Raft before and counting this as a step in the right direction. Steve seemed to agree wordlessly with his silent decision because his arms returned and he rested his chin on told of Scott’s head with such easy familiarity that Scott found himself aching to experience it a hundred times over.

“I must be mad too,” Steve’s voice hummed through Scott’s head, his breath displacing his hair. “Letting you come is probably mad, but going back would be foolish.” He withdrew and held Scott at arms length, scrutinising for a moment and then making a decision with a nod of his head.

“It seems I may have tied your hands,” Scott replied with a quirk of his mouth. Steve’s eyes closed in mock exasperation but he was betrayed by the smile that lit his face. Instead of replying he dipped his head again, planting a cautious kiss on Scott’s forehead after checking discretely that they were out of sight of Bucky who, as he had told Scott before, would never let it go if he ever saw anything happening between them. The thought of that made Scott smile again and for a moment he felt a little stupid, ginning like an idiot in front of Captain America.

And he decided in that moment that the water in Wakanda was definitely doing things to his head. Because whilst Clint was more relaxed now, Bucky had let his façade drop and Tony had calmed himself, Scott was fairly certain that he was downright hallucinating.

He thought for a moment, as if it was all a dream, that he wouldn’t pinch himself to check because he didn’t want to wake up, not if this could be reality for a little while longer. He knew that Siberia would change that, that being off the plane and out of Wakanda would make him wish for more and pine for home, but if he didn’t have to wake up before the plane landed he wasn’t going to.

After all, it was the best not-really-a-dream he’d had in three months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with all of my early morning updates, this is not particularly edited so I hope there aren’t too many mistakes.
> 
> After the last update I completely forgot to ramble about the Endgame trailer but WOW it looks good! I’m also watching every marvel film in chronologically order at the moment and will finish in time for the next avengers film so I’ll be completely ready to watch it so I’m constantly looking forward to it! The benefit of watching the films also means that I am more motivated to write (yay!) so you can thank Avengers Assemble for this particular chapter because it put me in a writing mood for once!
> 
> Anyway, this is a bit of a shorter chapter, more of a filler as well because I’m at a bit of a loss as to where this is going for the next couple of chapters. I’m sure inspiration will hit eventually; I read the other chapters back recently, so that’s why there's a few callbacks to previous things in this one because I remembered some things I wanted to flesh out. So I’m still not exactly sure where to take this or how much longer to go on for but any feedback is appreciated as always :)


	18. Trust Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning - brief mention and description of suicide (nothing graphic (just a description of a body) and not a main character)

Siberia was all cold, biting wind and relentless snow. It offered a stark juxtaposition to the exotic warmth that Wakanda had offered the team for the last few months. 

Clint landed the jet at what he deemed to be a suitable distance from the outwardly lifeless bunker, killing the engine and allowing the eerie silence of the desert settle around them. Scott peered grimly out of one of the porthole windows in the body of the plane, anticipating the contrasting temperature unhappily and looking forward to the impending confrontation even less. Steve had joined him, looking over his shoulder as his brow furrowed thoughtfully. Without thinking, his hand had rested on Scott’s shoulder, a gesture that the latter expected was unintentional but helpfully grounding.

The quiet was broken by the dull sound of restless tapping, coming from Bucky’s direction as one foot bounced up and down, steady as a metronome. Tony too, seemed reluctant to leave the safety of the jet but simultaneously anxious to to get whatever was coming over and done with.

They’d filled Scott in a little more on the flight over. Everything he knew hadn’t left him with a great deal of confidence but he trusted Steve and, when it came to a fight, Stark as well. But he knew the man in the suit could be as unrelenting and steadfast as the metal his uniform was made of and that only added to his nerves. Tony had candidly admitted that he wasn’t expecting to learn anything positive about himself, or his dad, but that he didn’t want to overreact. That was where Steve came in, with his calming influence and mostly level head. But Scott was worried he wouldn’t be able to fulfil that role as he once would have.

You see, Steve had changed in their three months as fugitives. He was fuelled by pent up anger, overriding his naturally good moral compass. And Scott could feel the tension radiating from him now, sensing his own unrest at being expected to bring Tony back into himself if he was angered by what he was shown.

“No use standing around,” Clint spoke up eventually, tugging at the string in his bow and flicking a speck of dust from the wound thread distastefully. “It’s not the sunshine we’re used to but I, for one, am looking forward to the change of scenery.” Steve allowed his hand to brush over Scott’s as he dropped it from his shoulder and turned away from the window determinedly.

“We need to handle this carefully,” his voice commanded the attention of the room in seconds, despite the hesitation Scott had felt earlier, “We don’t know what we’re dealing with and we’re walking into a precarious situation. Stealth is vital here, we don’t want to be bringing the ceiling down on ourselves.”

“Or burying what we came for,” Tony chipped in momentarily.

“Exactly,” Steve agreed, firing a calculating look in Tony’s direction briefly as if he was trying to gauge the other man’s unpredictable behaviour before they even faced the situation that might provoke an adverse reaction from him. “Stick together and remember your roles. Clint?”

“Stick at the back,” the archer replied swiftly, sounding all the more like a SHIELD agent, at home in his natural environment, “Find somewhere high up to lie low if we make contact with the target. Only shoot if necessary.” He recited the final section more monotonously, silently voicing his disagreement with their chosen approach to the mission. Steve surveyed him for a moment and then nodded, satisfied that this unhappiness would not jeopardise the operation.

“Sam?”

“Follow Clint,” the other man replied before breaking from his serious character, “Offer very little to the team as the one who usually flies because we’re going to be stuck in a bunker.” He broke off again at Cap’s pointed look and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m just saying, man. I’ll watch Clint’s back as much as I can and try and grab some intel on the way.”

“Sounds encouraging,” Clint commented under his breath, a wry smirk being the only thing that saved him from Sam’s swatting hand.

“You, Scott and Barnes are with me,” Tony interjected, addressing Steve again. “We get the lay of the land at first and then move in if it seems safe. Our mystery man carries out, what I am sure will be, a very orchestrated, over-dramatic reveal of something or other and then we react from there.” He wrinkled his nose at the necessity to leave their exit strategy so open ended but, truthfully, they were going in far too blind to see that far ahead.

“Buck?” Steve clarified with his friend briefly.

“What Stark said,” Bucky replied, his tone hinting at boredom before Steve continued to stare at him markedly, “And retreat if he starts trying to use his Russian on me again.” This, as with Clint, seemed to cast doubt across Bucky’s expression. Scott didn’t blame him; after all, it was one thing to walk into a situation knowing that brainwashing was still on the table and another to be expected to leave a team behind if that did start to happen. Scott considered Bucky a friend and had learnt swiftly that he was fiercely loyal. Protective too, of the right people. He’d told Scott about their first trip to the Siberian bunker and, although he hadn’t said it explicitly, he had, in as many words, admitted to his discomfort at fleeing and leaving Steve in an exploding bunker.

“And, Scott?” Steve turned back to him again now, his eyes softening ever so slightly from their hardened, mission focused gaze.

“Stick with you two,” Scott replied easily, nodding at both Steve and Tony, “Stay small to begin with and try and take him by surprise if the situation calls for it.” Steve still looked slightly unsure of this section of the plan although he had agreed to it which, Scott had decided weakly, had to count for something. He wanted to feel like he was part of the team after all, and being given some degree of responsibility helped to ease the continual feelings of imposter syndrome lingering just beneath his skin.

There was nothing more to be said so Clint lowered the ramp and led the way onto the crisp, unblemished surface of snow. There was something liberating in the mere sight of his shoulders leaking tension as he breathed the cool air, expelling it in a rich, expansive cloud indulgently. It made Scott eager to follow, although he hesitated when Steve held him back with a light hand on his arm, causing them to follow the rest of the team at the back.

“Trust me,” Scott said impulsively before Steve had a chance to speak. He glanced over at the other man briefly and interjected before he could question the sudden request, “Don’t worry about me or think that everything is going to go wrong. Just, trust me, okay?”

“Of course,” Steve replied effortlessly, genuine honesty lining the intense stare he captured Scott’s eyes with. “Although I can’t promise I won’t worry. Be careful and don’t show yourself too quickly.” Scott nodded, feeling his own muscles relax as both the crisp air hit them and his nerves dulled at Steve’s declaration of trust. It was still hard not to get a little excited that _Captain America_ trusted him and his suit to be a crucial part of his team although Scott found himself, beneath childish glee, secretly so much more motivated by _Steve’s_ encouragement. He didn’t want the trust of a symbol, or a tired character invented to help with war morale. But, as he did a lot nowadays, he found himself craving the attention of the battle-worn, tired, young man in front of him. 

He wanted to spend every second of his time with him, if only he didn’t feel the pull of responsibility towards other things, to Cassie, who he was guilty of not considering for a few hours. He shook that negativity off reluctantly, replacing it more hopefully with the realisation that he hadn’t thought of prison since he’d woken up that morning. It was the little things, like lasting until the early afternoon without a spike of anxiety at the sound of running water, that had got Scott back on his feet so quickly, he was sure of it. That had always been Luís’s philosophy after all; celebrate the little things and then every small step feels like that one milestone you’ve been working towards all your life. Admittedly, his friend took it quite literally and hadn’t exactly ended up in the strongest of positions. But even if he wasn’t a perfect example of the methodology leading to great success, he’d always seemed happy to Scott. And seeing Luís content had done more than enough to persuade him of the philosophy’s effectiveness. 

The door to the bunker loomed ominously in the foreground of unblemished white, its rusting metal exterior infecting the nearby snow with a harsh grey shadow. Tony stepped forward as Clint dropped back, scanning the vast metal hull for the same heat signature that had brought them to the desert.

“FRIDAY?” He paused for a moment and there was silence in the air except for the whistling wind and an indecipherable, tinny voice from within his suit. He turned back to the group, his face worried, _human_ , within the emotionless armour encasing him. “Nothing.”

“What’s our play?” Sam asked, looking between Steve and Tony curiously. Steve glanced over at the man leading them and raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“We go in,” Tony said confidently, although he addressed Steve silently, looking for confirmation, “If no one bothers us, it only makes the mission easier.” Steve nodded in agreement and set off again for the bunker. It was only when they reached the door that he spoke up.

“We’re going in blind everyone, so watch each other’s backs,” he looked at each and every one of them, pushing the rising fear that he was putting the team in danger again after vowing to keep them safe, “Don’t drop your guard and stick close. No one splits up, I don’t care what the reason is, you stay paired up.” Before, he would have anticipated Tony’s friendly, mocking response at that; expecting a wry remark about the team being all grown up and allowed to cross the road without holding hands by now; but when he looked back at Steve he only nodded solemnly.

“We might lose comms if we go too deep,” he took over from Steve, tapping his ear, “So it’s all the more important that we stick to the plan. If things go south, we get out in groups, not by ourselves. And if nothing goes wrong, rendezvous at the plane in one hour.”

“That’s everyone and not a minute later,” Steve said pointedly, his gaze settling on Clint briefly, knowing that he would be the only one to run off completely, blinded by a need to find Ross, thousands of miles away, and impart his own revenge. But the archer lifted one hand in a loose salute and returned to adjusting his bowstring obsessively.

The team moved through the exploded entrance warily, planting their feet carefully between piles of dust and larger scraps of fallen debris. Tony cast a light in front of them, the beam following his eyes as he circled the familiar room cautiously. It was still recognisably HYDRA; the almost compartment-like booths of computers suffocating the already dark room. It was hard to imagine anyone living and working in a place so barren, especially when the interiors didn’t leave much more to be desired than the cold desert beyond the front door.

“Big place,” Sam commented, his hushed voice creating a dissonant echo throughout the room. The walls were lined with spiderweb cracks, some worryingly expansive and thick, the dark fissures standing out under the torch beam.

“Let’s keep moving,” Steve eventually said, nodding towards the corridor Tony had first found him and Bucky in. That felt like years ago now, when their own differences seemed important enough to divide them. Tony dragged his finger along one of the desks for a moment, holding it up to the light and inspecting the dust curiously.

“Definitely brick dust,” he remarked to Steve as they entered the hallway, “There might have been more explosions since we were here.” Steve nodded slowly but frowned nonetheless.

“You don’t think you’d have detected them?” Bucky asked from behind them. A glance at Steve told Tony that he had been thinking the same. He mulled over his answer thoughtfully. It was entirely possible, of course, that the explosions had occurred in the small gaps in surveillance he’d had in the first few days when he was still arranging a schedule for the camera drones he’d set up. But that was unlikely, he had to admit, and he was almost definitely just looking for clarification that the heat signature he’d seen had ever existed.

“The explosion definitely reached here last time,” Steve added when Tony remained silent, “Or the dust, at least.” 

“We should keep our eyes open, just in case,” Tony said eventually, looking around the darkness distastefully, “It would be a shame to get blown to pieces somewhere so undetectable.” Bucky snorted under his breath at that, a sound that remarkably made Tony feel accomplished. The other wartime soldier had always been a harder audience than Steve was, his cool demeanour rarely cracking unless it was Steve doing the talking.

“I’d argue that there isn’t an ideal place to get blown to pieces,” Scott piped up from the middle of the group. He lifted his hands up guiltily when Steve sighed to himself, shaking his head. Tony, alongside him, saw the fond exasperation lift the corners of his mouth and smiled himself.

“Eyes on the prize, everyone,” Steve interjected after a moment’s pause, “It would be worse if we were blown to pieces because we were making too much noise.” No one could argue with that so they continued to progress down the corridor, only stopping when they reached the familiar metal staircase. 

Safe to say, the old metalwork hadn’t survived the blast, although a makeshift level of containers had been placed in the gap, at least providing one step between the floors. Tony felt that same threat of a shiver taunt his spine. This was the evidence he’d needed to prove that the heat signature had been real after all; movement that no explosion could have caused.

“Mind your step,” Steve murmured from the front of the group, staring down at the container and drawing the same conclusions, “We’re definitely not alone.” He peered down the gap and into the darkness cautiously, reluctant to jump down there blind. Tony was moving to shine a light for him when a call drew him back.

“Hey, guys?” It was Scott, whispering from a few metres down the hallway, as Clint hovered behind him, fingers now cutting into a taut bowstring. Tony instantly snapped to attention when he noticed the loaded weapon, quelling his approval at the stealth with which Barton had drawn his bow and focusing his concentration on Scott’s unwavering gaze.

Further along the hallway there was a dim light spilling from an antechamber. Tony remembered the shattered lightbulb in the first room, although he could only recall seeing the corridor lights working when they had last been there.

Steve had fallen silent, waving his hand over to the room and approaching almost silently, advancing through the hallway on gently placed feet, avoiding every shard of glass that littered the dirt floor. Tony never expected stealth from the man with the loud blue uniform but had to remind himself every so often that Steve had worked for SHIELD for some time, before HYDRA, before everything went downhill.

At the doorway, Steve waited for the rest of the team to join him, their backs pressed against the wall, side by side. Then, he lifted his shield protectively against his chest and moved into the light of the doorway. Tony expected a shout of surprise, from either the captain or from the person he had disturbed, but there was only a lingering silence. Then –

“Tony?” Steve called him softly into the room, entering it himself after a beat of hesitation. Tony followed equally as confidently, his eyes sweeping the interior of the room and landing swiftly on the body as it lay splayed across the floor. He couldn’t be sure, but something about the man’s face fit so perfectly to the nervous but deliberate voice that had greeted them before, that he was confident he knew who the body was.

“This is our guy,” he murmured eventually, circling the body and wincing at the gunshot wound in his head. The weapon lay loosely in one of his hands and, as Tony knelt down alongside it, he could see that the safety switch was off.

“I don’t understand,” Steve’s voice was laced with confusion as he analysed the rest of the room. “Why lure us here if he was planning this?” The rest of the team had gathered in the small room now but only Scott’s eyes lingered on the body for any length of time.

“Maybe he was expecting us to turn up earlier and when we didn’t-” he trailed off and shrugged one shoulder, pulling his eyes from the man’s face.

“He got desperate,” Clint finished, his voice detached and mission-formal, his brain dissociating from the sight in front of him as he only saw threats and goals. Tony had seen it a hundred times when the fairly relaxed, endlessly sarcastic man became the highly trained assassin. He’d seen it so distinctly in the contrast between Clint with his family and the Clint that had saved them all after that fateful mission with the mind-control. He could switch his mind off impressively when he didn’t need to think too deeply about anything. Tony suffered through the opposite, finding himself eternally thinking over things; the ‘vision’ he’d had, a recent blueprint he was working on or, more recently, Rhodey.

“Something doesn’t add up,” Sam said from the corner of the windowless room. It seemed to be the place the man had been living out of, although the décor left nothing to be desired. The room was as empty and lifeless as the rest of the bunker despite the traces of life scattered throughout its carcass. And finally Tony realised that he’d found the right word for the building; it was a carcass, a shell of what it once was and doing nothing more than harbouring the unconscious bodies of genetically enhanced super soldiers.

“You and Clint stay up here and have a proper look around,” Steve instructed Sam eventually, before nodding to the other three. “We should get moving if we want to be out of here in an hour.” Tony and Scott followed him to the door but Bucky stayed put in the room.

“Help them search this level,” Steve told him when he still didn’t move. There was a knowing reassurance in his tone that Bucky finally responded to with a short nod. Tony didn’t question it, although his earlier progress with Barnes felt cancelled out by another puzzling reaction. The man was a closed, locked and sealed book.

They didn’t talk until they retreated to the cavernous staircase. Steve hesitated much less before dropping onto the container below, waiting subtly for Scott to make the same move, his hands held firmly against his sides so he didn’t reach out to aid him unnecessarily.

“What was with Barnes up there?” Tony’s curiosity got the better of him once they were in sufficient darkness for any flicker of irritation on Steve’s face to remain invisible to him. He was surprised when the answer he received was patient and measured.

“He was part of this – programme – in some way or other,” Steve murmured, his mind clearly more focused on the darkness in front of him, “I hadn’t thought that maybe he wouldn’t want to see the people from it all over again.” Tony didn’t need to be told twice about avoiding bad memories; he had a lifetime of them and the list was only growing over time.

“Connection’s gone,” Scott commented further down the hallway. His faceplate had closed over for a moment and instantly sprung back. “Just static.” Tony directed his own attention to the comms in his ear and found the same, screwing his nose up disagreeably.

“Let’s try and make this quick then,” he replied, aiming his remark towards the disembodied voice in the pitch black of the lower levels. It was clearer down here that the explosion had even existed. The walls were lined with debris and shrapnel, the ceilings littered with hairline fractures.

His eyes lingered on the cracks for a moment, tracing the lines until he got them mixed up in his head and then starting over again. He hadn’t noticed his heart rate elevating in the growing darkness or the buzz of adrenaline as it fuelled even the tips of his fingers. He made himself walk more purposefully towards the light at the end of the corridor, catching sight of the tanks lining the larger room and scattered equipment.

The silence dragged on further below the surface but his pulse kept a steady, if not erratic, metronome to pace his strides to. Not long now. Not long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a while...
> 
> This update is brought to you courtesy of the motivation I got out of watching Endgame and also the sudden increase in comments that got me working on this properly again.
> 
> My plan, as I briefly explained in a couple of replies, is to finish up this story in the next few chapters. Then, I’ve got a sort of in between story which is just one shot style chapters to tie the ending of this into the beginning of endgame. And then, in what will probably take me another year, I want to write a sequel to this which puts my versions of these characters into endgame. So basically the sameish plot but with Scott/Steve and slightly less Civil war fallout as I have already mostly dealt with that.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this update. The next chapter is in the work and is going surprisingly well for a more action based chapter so hopefully it will turn out well and not take me a year to get round to finishing. The good thing is, I’ve almost finished the one shot thing (it is quite short admittedly) so as soon as this is done, I can start releasing them :)


	19. Not Alone

“Well, you weren’t wrong about the super soldiers,” Tony commented wryly as they stepped into the cavernous, laboratory-esque bunker. It was dimly lit by flickering electric lighting, the system clearly makeshift and rapidly falling apart like the rest of the expansive room. Steve had forced himself to enter the room, feeling his own legs seize up slightly at the ghostly sight of six bodies, each submerged and suspended in liquid and encased in glass. It was like a zoo, if all of the animals had been dead and preserved for some time. 

Scott, far more curious than both Steve and Tony, had already ventured further into the room, although he didn’t stray too close to the tanks that lined each wall. His first glance at the nearest body had told him everything he needed to know about the super soldiers; a bullet to the head, presumably the fate of the remaining five soldiers. He decided swiftly, with a shiver running down his spine, that there was no need to check the remaining bodies to confirm his suspicions.

After all, the computer screen, wheeled rather deliberately into the centre of the room, was far less unsettling and a lot more familiar. He hadn’t got within touching distance before the screen switched on, the graphics intermittent and broken up by lines of static. Tony’s eyes flickered up from an identification card in his hands at the first echoes of interference and approached the screen curiously.

“We’ve got a name for the mystery man,” he announced, passing the card to Steve and then to Scott. Steve glanced over it swiftly, confirming the dreadful suspicion that this was yet another repercussion from Sokovia. The card was identical to the hundreds the Captain had seen in passing as they were dropped and discarded in the panicked evacuation of the floating country.

“Military,” Scott read, turning the small card over in his hands, “That would explain how he constructed the bombs last time.” He looked around the room again, eyes constantly wary, even when his stance suggested a calmer composure. Steve rested a hand on his arm fleetingly, nodding reassuringly when a flicker of gratitude crossed Scott’s face and the tension in his shoulders released minutely.

The screen, now forgotten as it failed to do anything but send the same pattern of pixelated lines through the blank blackness, finally lit the shadowy space in front of it. Steve squinted slightly to identify the blur of shapes, seeing an unfamiliar road and just making out a car in the distance. It was Tony’s reaction that caught his attention more, as the other man had leant forward intently, his own eyes fixed only on the date in the corner of the screen.

“Tony?” Steve asked carefully, unsurprised when his question went unanswered. The car moved shakily into focus, the silence in the room broken only by an unconcealed intake of breath.

“That’s my dad’s car,” Tony said as he exhaled through pursed lips, still leaning forward to see the screen as closely as possible. His tone was flat and defeatist as if he knew what was coming. Steve looked at the date in the corner of the screen again, wracking his brain for an association to Howard and, at first, drawing a blank.

It wasn’t until he remembered another computer screen and another bunker that the connection clicked into place. He recalled seeing a newspaper article on the screen of Zola’s computer with Natasha; the issue had read _17th December 1991_ , only a day after the date of the footage in front of them. And at the time, his mind focused solely on the familiar voice of the wartime scientist, Steve had never thought to make a connection between Howard Stark and Bucky. Not until the footage jumped forwards.

He could just about make out the frown growing steadily on Tony’s face, masking the pinched look of pain that would otherwise occupy his features. The car swerved suddenly and violently towards a tree, the bonnet warping and twisting out of shape as it wrapped around the trunk. Another beam of a single headlight illuminated the narrow country road as a motorbike approached rapidly and Tony swore inaudibly under his breath.

A figure circled the wreckage with calm, well-placed steps. He had the deliberation of an assassin and Bucky’s metal arm and unkempt, long brown hair. Steve’s forehead furrowed deeply as he resisted the urge to pull Tony away from the screen and shatter it before the footage could reach its inevitable conclusion.

“I don’t want to watch this,” Tony made the decision for himself, turning away with anguish burning in his eyes before locking them into Steve, “If I watch that I won’t be able to look Barnes in the eye again.” Steve nodded shortly, swallowing his own morbid understanding with the lump in his throat as the scene continued to play over Tony’s shoulder. His attention drifted between Bucky’s shadowy form and Tony’s occasionally wavering gaze as he stared pointedly at the opposite wall of the bunker, his hands clenched tightly into fists.

Steve masked the wince on his face as best as he could when Bucky reached his hand into the shattered window of first the driver’s seat and then the passenger seat. He tried to detach the idea of his friend from the cool steel in the eyes of the man that looked up at the camera, gun raised and pointed firmly at the lens.

He was grateful that there had been no sound to accompany the footage, thankful that the tightness in Tony’s shoulders was not tighter and the clenching of his jaw not firmer.

“Was it quick?” Tony’s voice was hoarse but firm as if shattered the stunned silence in the room. Steve could feel Scott watching him steadily from off to one side, his gaze calculating and helplessly curious.

“Tony-”

“ _Steve._ ” Tony interjected again, staring firmly back at him as anger and grief threatened to overspill the dams of his eyes, “Please.”

“I think so,” Steve replied eventually, swallowing again against the urge to say something more. Tony looked calmer at his reassurances although this didn’t stop him from closing his eyes firmly, the skin around his eyelids pinching and wrinkling deeply. The sight made Steve long to return to any other time but now; back to 2012 when a wormhole opened in the sky, even back to the war. He could remember meeting Tony for the first time, meeting an arrogant, self-assured, frustratingly intelligent man who passed comfortably as the age he was. Now, it was like seeing that man aged half his life in a few years.

Tony barely had a moment to regain his composure when a deafening crack sounded around the room and the doorway crumbled beneath an explosion of rock and debris. The three of them whipped around to see the last of the stone settle into a formidable pile. Steve was instantly looking for another way out, frustrated when he couldn’t locate another door.

“There are little gaps but we’ll have to clear the rest by hand,” Tony commented numbly, kicking at the smaller stones at the base of the pile with rapidly fading anguish. “I can make a start with my blasters but it’ll be slow work.”

“Well, there’s no use destroying anything important in the process,” Steve replied, gesturing to the load bearing beams around the room, “Scott and I can search for alternatives in the control room.” They’d barely stepped forwards when another explosion erupted from above them and a fragment of the ceiling came crashing down close to Scott’s head. Steve blinked, lifting his shield to cover his own and Scott’s head as the man backed up towards him.

“You could get beneath the rocks,” he told Scott as they approached the control room again, this time under the cover of the shield. Scott quite pointedly ignored him and kept glancing up at the roof.

“It’s a trap,” Tony muttered grimly, his voice still wavering ever so slightly over the comms link as he pulled at the loose debris on the opposite side of the room. “Even when he’s dead, the bastard’s trying to taunt us.”

“You think there’s more?” Steve asked although really there was no need. Another blast fired shards of glass from one of the super soldier tanks, the liquid leaking onto the dusty floor and splattering puddles across the otherwise dusty ground. He pulled Scott around and angled the shield to fend off the sharp projectiles, feeling one make a slight cut in the thick fabric of his uniform.

They were getting less intermittent and there was no time to react before a second blast shattered the same tank entirely and the first body fell limply to the floor. Up close, the bullet wound to the head was evident, as were the pronounced muscles and physique of a super soldier. Steve gave himself a moment to look closely at the body; female, young. It was difficult to process that there were others, that they’d been trained for the other side and could have destroyed so much had they been released on the world.

Another boom sounded from a further distance, sending dust and smaller stones rattling through the hole in the ceiling. Scott ducked again, disappearing briefly and then reappearing when the rain of rocks stopped. Steve looked at him for a moment, catching his eye and nodding over to the rocks. He could get out if he shrunk down and climbed between them, he thought to himself urgently, he could be safe.

“No, Steve,” Scott replied preemptively, shaking his head and then diving away again when the hail began above them once more. A second tank erupted in a stream of water and glass bullets, this time forcing Tony to stop his steady progress at the door. The deafening cracks of explosions filled the air now, some small and taunting whilst others dented the walls around them and destroyed chunks of the ceiling. The water was ankle high now; it pooled uncomfortably at Steve’s feet, cold, unpleasant, but there was no time to think about that now.

“Go!” Steve shouted at Scott amidst the chaos, whose faceplate was still up, his eyes slightly widened at the sight of another soldier’s body in front of them. He blinked harshly and then turned to Steve, shaking his head. Steve was distracted by a falling beam that he dodged to avoid.

“No! You said-” Scott disappeared in the blink of an eye, his voice swapping over to the channel in Steve’s ears, “We stick together.” Steve caught sight of the small man running and jumping towards the control room that the man who they had found on the floor above must have once inhabited, sliding under the narrow gap beneath the door frame. It quickly became futile to try and keep an eye on him whilst simultaneously avoiding the periodic blasts of rock and glass from around the room so Steve reminded himself of the words they had exchanged outside the bunker. ‘Just trust me, okay?’

“It’s a chain of explosions with the main control rig set up in here,” Scott’s voice returned eventually, “They were triggered by us entering this room, but I might be able to disable it, or at least slow down the ones triggered to go off at the entrance.” 

“Buy us some time, Scott,” Tony replied, answering to stop Steve from continuing to argue. He’d used up his own blasts as he began to make progress on the door and grunted with the effort of lifting the larger rocks by hand. “Cap, I could use some super strength right now.” Steve vaulted over another beam in front of him, immediately sliding across the slowly flooding floor as another container shattered next to him. He shook the worry that Scott would become trapped on the wrong side of the room and supported the other side of the rock as Tony lifted it.

“He was a thief,” Tony said, his faceplate opening so he could talk to Steve privately. He had to shout over the sound of water and continuing explosions but Steve heard the implication behind his words clearly. “He’s resourceful, and he’s got the suit.”

He’ll be fine, was what Tony was clearly trying to say, although he stopped short of voicing the sentiment aloud, grimly throwing a glance upwards at the slowly disintegrating ceiling. The floor above was growing steadily more visible, concerning Steve as the other three members of the team continued their search above.

“This is going to take too long,” he murmured eventually, repeating himself far louder when Tony didn’t hear. The man next to him ignored his second effort and returned to clearing the rocks more determinedly, only stopping when Steve slowed down considerably.

“Come on, Cap, we’ve got a plan and we’re sticking to it,” he rested a hand on Steve’s shoulder for a moment, an unmasked expression of turmoil and loss imprinted on his face. “And I don’t think Scott will be able to buy as enough time for us to afford to stand around and discuss it.” Steve could see Tony’s desperation to be busy seeping through the illusion that he was just following their intended plan. His fingers were twitching as they stood still, itching to return to the same repetitive, menial task of clearing debris; anything to distract himself from the grainy footage that had once been shown on the now shattered computer screen in the centre of the room.

“The explosions are designed to trigger intermittently throughout the building, Cap,” Scott reported through his earpiece, the connection faltering precariously even over the short distance between them, “I’m trying to delay the ones around the entrance to give us a better chance but there’s no way to stop them entirely.”

“Do what you can,” Steve replied, sighing with the effort of throwing a particularly large chunk of doorway to one side, “And get back on this side of the room, Scott. The ceiling isn’t going to hold for much longer.”

“He’ll be alright,” Tony grunted again, his faceplate still exposing his face as water ran down his skin, droplets gathering in the lines marking his complexion. Steve nodded again, distracted momentarily by their first glimpse of the corridor beyond the large bunker. 

_They'll be alright._

* * *

“Hear that?” Bucky asked, his head whipping around and alert as a rumble sounded in the distance. 

“No, I didn’t,” Sam replied sarcastically although his forehead had furrowed at the sound and his head was quick follow Bucky’s trajectory to the door.

“Explosion, one floor down,” Clint appeared at the door, having been scouring the hallway outside for further clues to the identity of the man who still lay unmoving on the floor. “And I’m still getting nothing from Steve.” He said this grimly, pulling his earpiece from his ear and holding it up uselessly.

“Should’ve gone with them,” Bucky muttered under his breath, a heavy frown settling permanently on his face as he steeled himself, “Remember the plan – we stick to our job and get out of here within the hour.” Sam opened his mouth to complain briefly but, upon noticing Clint’s short, unhappy nod of agreement, returned to scrutinising the illegible handwriting that lined a worn leather notebook, just masking a wince when the second rumble hit closer to them.

“He lost his family in Sokovia,” he read eventually, holding up the book for Bucky to see. Clint had disappeared down the corridor again, the vague sound of crumbling concrete beneath his feet occasionally resonating enough for them to hear.

“That place is really out to get us, huh?” Bucky replied drily, his nose screwing up in displeasure merely at the mention of it. “You think he was trying to get Tony and Steve to turn on each other?”

“Maybe,” Sam mused, his eyes scouring the page of dense text helplessly, “I think he blames both of them for what happened. And the accords were already doing half the work for him.”

“It would explain this as well,” Bucky gestured down at the body of the man uncomfortably, “His plan didn’t work out when we came here for the first time. Maybe he got too restless to wait.”

“And rigged up the place to explode?” Sam asked, his tone disbelieving as a much closer explosion loosened a shower of plaster from the ceiling. “It seems like a waste, if he really did have something he wanted Tony to see.”

Clint appeared at the door again before Bucky could reply, his hand locked around his bow and an arrow hitched in the bowstring. He put a finger to his lips as Sam began to question him and pushed the rickety door closed quietly.

“We’re not alone any more,” he murmured in a hushed tone.

“What do you mean?” Bucky asked, his eyes tense and alert as they had been when the first explosion detonated.

“Movement at the front door,” Clint replied grimly, his face set into an expression of stern, unrelenting determination. “The government, I think.”

“Ross?” Sam asked sharply, his eyes flickering from their intent watch on the door briefly. Clint’s had set firmly at the mere mention of the other man’s name and he flexed the bow string between his fingers.

“Hopefully not,” he answered shortly, “For his own sake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really thought I’d be able to wrap this up by chapter 20 but that doesn’t look like it will be the case. I don't want to stretch it out beyond 22 but we will have to to see! 
> 
> It would have been nice to end on a round number though :p

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I’ve had this in the works for a while now and I’m just getting around to editing and posting. It isn’t finished, but I have at least five chapters 90% written and a fairly solid plan for the rest of the plot.
> 
> I’m going to update regularly for now and try to keep up with writing and publishing’s simultaneaously. Let me know what you think so far; constructive criticism is always welcome :)


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